Analog SFF, April 2012
Author: Dell Magazine Authors
Date: 0101-01-01 00:00:00+00:00
Description: Science Fiction. 72079 words long.

Dell Magazines
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Copyright ©2012 by Dell Magazines

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Cover Art by David A. Hardy

Cover design by Victoria Green

CONTENTS

Reader's Department: EDITORIAL: POLICY by Stanley Schmidt

Novelette: THE MOST INVASIVE SPECIES by Susan Forest

Reader's Department: IN TIMES TO COME

Science Fact: PLANETS (OOPS, PLANETOIDS) X, Y, Z, AND W: WHAT THE KUIPER BELT TEACHES ABOUT THE DAWN OF THE SOLAR SYSTEM by Richard A. Lovett

Short Story: A DELICATE BALANCE by Kevin J. Anderson

Novelette: ECCE SIGNUM by Craig DeLancey

Department: THE ALTERNATE VIEW: THE CHINK IN EINSTEIN'S ARMOR by Jeffery D. Kooistra

Probability Zero: TO SERVE ALIENS (YES, IT'S A COOKBOOK) by Eric James Stone

Short Story: YOU SAY YOU WANT A REVOLUTION by Jerry Oltion

Short Story: FOLLOW-UP by Stephen L. Burns

Serial: TRIGGERS: PART III OF IV by Robert J. Sawyer

Reader's Department: THE REFERENCE LIBRARY by Don Sakers

Reader's Department: A REFERENCE LIBRARY SUPPLEMENT by Don Sakers

Reader's Department: BRASS TACKS

Reader's Department: UPCOMING EVENTS by Anthony Lewis

* * * *
Vol. CXXXII No. 3
APRIL 2012
Stanley Schmidt, Editor
Trevor Quachri, Managing Editor

* * * *

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Published since 1930

First issue of Astounding January 1930 (c)

Reader's Department: EDITORIAL: POLICY by Stanley Schmidt

In preparing for a recent trip, I found two motels in an off-the-beaten-track little town where I needed to spend a couple of nights. They sounded pretty similar, and they were the only two I found listed that still had vacancies, so I picked one pretty much at random and made a reservation. But when I asked for a confirmation by mail or e-mail, the clerk told me, “Oh, we don't do that."

"Why not?” I asked.

"It's not our policy."

And that, apparently, was supposed to satisfy me. It didn't.

I consider a written confirmation of a hotel reservation—or any business agreement—at the very least a basic courtesy that should be provided as a matter of course, and certainly (and without question) on direct request. I explained that, as politely as I could manage, and asked the clerk to make an exception. “That really isn't necessary,” she said. “We've always done it this way, and we've never had a problem."

Maybe they had never had a problem, but how about their customers? Were they all equally satisfied with how their reservations were handled? Even if they were, did that mean I should be content to trust that they would have a room for me, at the promised rate and with the promised cancellation policy, with no written proof that any of those promises had been made?

My experience said otherwise. I remembered in particular a time when I had shown up at a different hotel with a printout of a confirmed reservation, and even though the clerk acknowledged that it looked like one of their reservations, they had no record of it and no room for me. He didn't seem particularly concerned, and seemed to wish I would go away and stop bothering him, but when I refused to do so, he did help me find a room at a less satisfactory hotel in a less satisfactory location. I suppose I must give him some credit for that, but he refused to do anything more by way of compensation for the hotel's breach of contract. Fortunately I had made the reservation through a very good, very conscientious travel agent, and he badgered the first hotel for more than a month until they finally coughed up reimbursement for what I had to spend at the other place.

But even he couldn't have done it if I hadn't had solid, tangible proof that the first hotel had made the reservation it refused to honor.

So no, I will not willingly make a reservation with any hotel that refuses to give me a confirmation. I want both sides to have tangible proof of what was agreed to in case of any possible misunderstanding—which can happen even with a business that prides itself on never having had one. So when I persisted in trying to get that first clerk I mentioned to send me a confirmation even though it “isn't our policy,” she said she'd have to ask her supervisor. She came back a few minutes later and said, “I'm sorry, sir. I can't send you a reservation. It's impossible."

Which, of course, was blatant nonsense. Obviously it was possible; they just didn't want to be bothered. Even if they didn't have a computer system that could do it with a few clicks of a mouse, it would take no more than a couple of minutes for somebody to jot down the relevant details, stick them in an envelope, stamp it, and put it in a pile of outgoing mail.

So as soon as I hung up, I called my other candidate hotel (let's call it “Hotel B"), a few doors down the street, and found that they, too, had a vacancy. They also had a computer system that could send a confirmation with a few mouse clicks, and they did so, cheerfully and immediately, without my even having to ask.

Whereupon I called the first hotel ("A") and cancelled my reservation there.

So what did Hotel A get for its obstinacy? They lost my business—and, on at least one of the nights in question, they did not replace it. I was staying a few doors away and I was curious, so I looked, and saw that their VACANCY sign was hung out. So they lost at least one night's revenue, which I had offered to provide, as well as a chance for favorable word-of-mouth advertising.

What did they gain? Nothing that I've been able to think of.

But the whole episode seems to me a good example of a trend that has long been prevalent in our culture, and may be increasing: the tendency to lay down a policy for How to Handle Things and then cling unthinkingly to it forever after, regarding “It's policy” as the final and definitive answer to anyone who dares question how things are done or why they're done that way.

But of course it isn't an answer at all. In at least some cases, policies are established because there are real reasons to do things in a particular way. For example, when most manuscripts were submitted to publishers as hardcopy (as they were until quite recently), most publishers had a policy that authors who wanted a response had to provide a self-addressed stamped envelope. The reason was that publishers couldn't afford to pay for postage and envelopes for thousands of submissions that they couldn't use. If an author asked (as one reasonably might) why he or she had to provide an SASE, that was the answer—not just, “It's policy."

Yet over and over I encounter (and I suspect you do, too) cases where a business insists on doing something in a way that doesn't seem to make sense, and when I ask why, the answer, delivered with an air of finality, is, “It's policy."

Another recent example (and by no means the first of its kind I've seen) was a restaurant where a waiter told a large party that he “couldn't” give separate checks to small groups within the large one, which everybody at the table wanted in order to avoid the common hassle of figuring out who owed how much. When one of the diners pointed out that he would have to do that if the same groups distributed themselves among several smaller tables, he shrugged the reasonable objection off with, “It's policy.” When pressed for an explanation of why it was policy, he said it was “too much trouble” to keep track of several small checks instead of one big one.

Thereby implying that while it was too much trouble for him, even though he was being paid to keep track of that table's orders and was the one person in the room who had a good overview of them, it was perfectly okay to slough that “trouble” off onto the loosely organized committee of eighteen people who were paying him.

Only when he began to suspect that there was a real possibility of those eighteen customers getting up and leaving without paying him or the restaurant anything did he conveniently find a supervisor who would grudgingly approve an exception to Policy.

I don't really know to what extent this affliction, this slavish devotion to following established policy without regard for why it was established or whether the reasons still apply, is peculiar to our culture. Certainly I've read of examples of it in earlier ones. Nor do I know to what extent it's peculiar to “western civilization."

I do know that it's increasingly dangerous in a world already complicated and rapidly changing. Probably most cultures have found it necessary to establish policies so that decisions with a good chance of being appropriate can be made even by functionaries without much personal knowledge or powers of analysis. The trouble is that policies are a little like evolutionary adaptations in biology: They're not necessarily the best possible solutions to today's problems, but rather workable solutions—sometimes just barely adequate ones—to yesterday's problems. In a world as complex and rapidly evolving as the one we now live in, those are less and less likely to be good enough. What we need is not increasingly strict, unswerving allegiance to old policies, but an increasing prevalence of people competent to analyze a new situation and make a sensible judgment about what it really needs.

Sometimes it's actually necessary to follow an established policy, and impossible to make exceptions. In print publishing, for example, book contracts commonly undergo appreciable negotiation before they're signed, but magazine contracts can't. A novel published in book form is a single story sold by itself; if the author has a grudge against Albania (or vice versa), it's not especially difficult to exclude Albania from the contractual list of territories where the book will be sold. But if a magazine has a standing agreement for Albanian or e-book editions of every whole issue, in its entirety, there's no way it can agree to exclude those rights for individual stories or authors. That would make it impossible to publish the Albanian or e-book edition of that particular issue, thereby upsetting a large metaphorical applecart and sending metaphorical apples rolling every which way.

But sometimes—I'm tempted to say more often than not—an absolute insistence on sticking to the letter of a policy No Matter What is just stupid. One amusingly extreme example from fairly recent experience: A few years ago the supermarkets in my area insisted on carding anybody who wanted to buy beer. Not just anybody who looked under thirty or forty or some other arbitrary line that might give a reasonable margin of error, but anybody—even someone who any idiot could see was at least ninety.

Such a practice annoys customers, by wasting their time on obvious nonsense. It insults employees, by treating them as if they are even less able than “any idiot” to recognize that a customer is obviously far beyond legal age to buy beer. By treating them as if they lack even rudimentary judgment, it gives them no incentive to develop any and take pride in exercising it.

Which is exactly the opposite of what we need. An advanced and advancing civilization needs citizens—lots of them—who have well-developed judgment and who understand and accept the need to be accountable for its quality and consequences. It does not need a straitjacket of policies that were developed to fit one set of conditions, have no flexibility to adapt to new ones, and are viewed as a substitute for thinking.

Copyright (C) 2012 Stanley Schmidt

[Back to Table of Contents]

Novelette: THE MOST INVASIVE SPECIES by Susan Forest

Doing the right thing is commendable, but first you have to understand what that means. . . .

I picked up Doc's replacement in my safari rover, at the bungalow where Lloyd put her, just off the road to Eddy's orchard. I'd come to drive her out to the nomads’ place. It was a Saturday, hot and sunny, about a week after the transport landed, and I was thinking how good it'd be to have another professional woman besides Jessica and me in the colony.

Half-unpacked boxes were still stacked on her veranda as Karen hugged her son, Sam—just a preschooler—and gave her husband a peck on the cheek. Michael was tall and gangly, and he wore a toothy smile as he waved at me from the open door. He was to be Tumbling River's first schoolteacher.

The new doc lugged her med kit to the rover and puzzled over the back end.

"Looking for the thumb print?” I hopped out of the driver's side and shoved on a wide-brimmed hat.

"Everything's so new.” She slapped at a fly. “I keep walking into doors."

"Old, you mean.” I turned the handle and lifted the trunk lid.

"A mechanical latch.” She chuckled at its simplicity and threw her med kit in. “I already love it here."

I slammed the lid and watched with amusement as she methodically opened the passenger door. “So they still using thumb prints in the Alliance? Everything kept all locked up?"

"How long have you been here?” Karen climbed into the passenger side and threw her satchel in the back seat.

"Eight years. I'm an old timer."

She snapped the seatbelt with casual pride in her own skill. “Not so much has changed. By the way, my name is Karen."

"Amanda.” I started the rover and handed her a pair of sunglasses.

"This vehicle burns hydrocarbons?"

"Colony's brand new. Twelve years. We rough it. Ancient technology's pretty simple. You find these old trucks on a lot of new planets.” I pulled onto the track and we followed the ruts over the bridge and out onto the savanna. “There's a factory town in the mountains, about a hundred miles north. Makes pretty much everything we use. Even have a paved road to get there. Off planet stuff's too expensive."

"But carbon fuels are so dirty.” She grabbed the dash and the door as we jounced over a rock hidden in the grass.

"Hey, we got a whole planet."

She stared at me in shock.

Oh, yeah. That kind of a joke probably sounded pretty bad to someone from Away. “Hydrocarbon trucks're only temporary. ‘Till the quarkian fuel cell factory's done. Another year.” We bumped along the track. “Look."

She pushed her head through the open window. “Gazelles?"

"We got a guy here we call Adam ‘cause his job is to name all the animals. He's got some long handle for these things, but we just call them deer. Because of the antler-thingies. I make carvings from antlers I find on the ground."

The graceful, long-legged beasts startled at the sound of the vehicle and darted as a group a little farther onto the savanna, then returned to their grazing, some watching our progress across the endless flat. For the next couple of hours I pointed out a bunch of plants, herd animals and birds, the farming machines and a pack of feral dogs. Karen just gaped.

"So, those were Alliance dogs? Not natural panspermic origin?” She eased back into her seat as I slowed the vehicle to negotiate the narrower track through the forest. “Isn't there some kind of law against introducing new species to a virgin planet?"

I pulled the netting down over my face and Karen did likewise. It was better than rolling up the windows. “I guess. Lloyd's pretty laid back about Alliance law. We mostly get along okay here. He drags out the books when he has to."

"But don't the dogs out-compete native species?"

"Don't seem to.” I geared down.

"Not yet, maybe."

"Come on, Doc. Ecosystems change all the time.” The rover's big wheels crawled over a log. “Whether the dogs got loose or not, no ecology stays the same."

She put both hands on the dash as we went down a steep embankment. “But when you let animals loose—"

"Well, you can argue that with the big wigs.” I steered into the creek—fewer obstacles. “We came to farm. That means Earth crops."

"Crops, okay—"

"There's no half-way. The only way to keep this planet untouched is for no human colonization at all. That's not what the Alliance is about.” I pulled the wheel around and brought the rover up the bank. “We're the most invasive animal there is."

Well, she couldn't argue with that.

"Here we are.” I shut off the motor.

We climbed out and stretched our legs in a clearing by a mossy brook. Karen looked expectantly into one of the big trees that arced up in a giant spiral, massive limbs curving out from its trunk horizontally before climbing toward the sky. Its bark had been worn smooth by generations of nomads climbing to the woven bowers they built in the cup at the base of each branch. There were five or six of these dwellings scattered through the woods close by. As I expected, no one was home.

Karen tucked her pant legs into the tops of her boots against the bugs. “Lloyd said they'd be here."

"They will be.” I pulled supplies from the rover. “There are always a few families here, this time of year."

"But not necessarily today."

"They're probably in the woods looking for berries.” I laid out the blanket on the grass. “They'll be back before dark."

Karen settled herself on the blanket. She was interested in everything, and as we sat in the shade and ate lunch she interrupted herself continuously to point out bugs, small birds or brilliant bits of flora while quizzing me about being a translator, about my husband's research into nomad neurophysiology, about how the operators farmed miles of open prairie by remote control, and about everyone who lived in Tumbling River. Then we drowsed in the hum of the afternoon heat, watching the trees’ photosynthetic filaments flutter overhead like perpetual motion machines.

Karen shook me. “Amanda."

I swam back to consciousness. The shadows had shifted; it was mid-afternoon.

Karen pointed to a pair of eyes in the depths of the foliage.

I climbed to my feet.

High forehead, arching mane of symmetrical black and white stripes, tufted shoulders. “Fred!"

"Fred?” Karen whispered.

"Names are a bit tricky in their language, so we just call him Fred.” I opened my hands, low and to the sides in the nomad style of greeting. Karen stood behind me near the vehicle, watching.

There was a rustling in the bush to Fred's left and I picked out Mae and Dot, and after a moment, Grandpa. Fred took his time, but after a bit he came forward. "Who's the new one?"

"Our replacement doctor. This is Karen. Karen, this is Fred."

Fred held his hand up and I tapped his knuckles with my own, in the nomad style. I could see Karen was a little relieved that Fred was shorter than she, and she took his nudity in stride. She lifted her knuckles and Fred tapped them gently. Mae, Fred's wife, a slight creature, came forward dragging her baby, keeping her good eye to us. The older child, Tosh, scampered forward curiously. Grandpa, with his characteristic limp, and Dot, Fred's sister, came up behind them.

"Where are the boys?" I asked. “Fred and Mae have two more."

Fred grunted noncommittally. "Hunting birds." He lowered his sack to the ground—I could see Karen noting it was an Alliance micro-weave bag—and produced fruits and tubers and a couple of dead mice. "You will eat with us." He rummaged at the base of a dwelling tree for a gourd to bring water.

Each of us brought out what we had to share and we sat in the grass. The baby, covered except for her face in sparse, fluffy blond hair, crawled up to me, and using my shoulders to bring herself to stand on two sturdy legs, poked an inquisitive finger in my ear, feeling the cartilage all around. I yipped as she bit my ear with little needle teeth. The adults pressed their lips together and snorted, exchanging delighted glances, their expression of laughter. I chuckled, but gently pushed the little one away. Karen squinted at the bruising on the child's face.

Tosh scampered to the picnic blanket and took things out of my pack. I'd learned a long time ago that everything brought to the nomads’ place had to be locked up or considered disposable.

Dot produced an Alliance hairbrush and settled in to comb brambles from the graying pelt that covered Grandpa's back, upper arms and the backs of his thighs. Her own mane and dorsal coat shone deep mahogany—except for a few tufts, marking scars—darker than her brown-tanned skin. The white crest at the front of her mane gave her the wide-eyed look of a VR star captured by a camera's flash. I'd long thought Dot more attractive than mousy Mae, with the scar that half-closed her left eye.

"Is Karen married?" Without meeting the doctor's gaze, Mae handed Karen a pale tuber with clumps of dirt clinging to it.

Karen turned at the sound of her name, inexpertly pronounced but recognizable. She accepted the gift, unsure how to eat it.

"Yes. Her husband cares for many of our children," I replied, pulling the toddler's finger out of my ear again.

There were many grunts of approval at this.

The baby climbed over my lap to investigate my other ear.

A shriek startled us. Fred had leapt up the trunk of the nearest tree home, his fingers clamped around Tosh's ankle before the boy could disappear into the upper branches. Fred yanked him from his perch and the boy tumbled with a thump to the ground. He was about to rise and run when Fred landed beside him, slapped his head and bit his shoulder with long, sharp incisors.

Tosh lay, silently quivering, his shoulder bleeding, as Fred returned to our circle.

"This is yours, Manda." Fred tossed a gold foil package on the grass before me: a disposable tent, one of half a dozen I owned.

Karen blanched and her nails dug into the tuber she still held. To her credit, she remained seated and silent.

"Kids." Mae shook her head in gentle exasperation. "Sorry, Manda." She helped herself to a power bar I'd added to the banquet.

"We found one of your beehives, gone wild," Fred said, munching on one of the mice. "Tomorrow, we'll show you where it is. Karen will like the honey."

"Tomorrow” could mean anytime in the next week or two. "That's great," I responded, detaching the toddler, whose long toenails were scratching my back as she tried to climb my head, and handed her back to Mae. "But today we must leave soon."

"That was a short visit." Grandpa scowled his disapproval of our rudeness.

"We came because Karen has a gift for you, but she has to get back to her own child."

Grandpa's face cleared in understanding and the others grunted their respect.

I translated as Karen explained the vaccination procedure and her request to collect baseline data on their health. Though the procedures were noninvasive, the nomads were skeptical until Fred said, "You may protect me. I will decide."

Karen nodded; with professional efficiency, she applied the vaccine to the skin just below his ear. She put a new pad on her diagnostic machine, labeled it, and pressed it to his wrist.

Fred sat back watching Karen, and waited a moment. "I see no harm," he announced at last.

Dot handed her brush to Grandpa and came around the little circle to Karen, and Karen repeated the ritual.

Mae came next, and then allowed Karen to treat the baby.

"And Tosh?" Karen asked. "And your other sons?"

"Tosh," Fred agreed. "The boys, tomorrow."

Tomorrow. Well, there would be other tomorrows. Karen took her medical kit to where Tosh still lay in the grass. The adults returned to eating a final few delicacies, chatting and stretching out in the sun's slanting rays.

Tosh watched with increasing interest as Karen applied the vaccine and took a reading on his health. I also saw her feel his arms and legs, and inspect the bite on his shoulder. She gave me a brief questioning look, and I shook my head. She frowned, and sprayed the boy's shoulder with an antibiotic anyway.

Seeing she was done, I made our good-byes and we departed.

* * * *

Dusk slowed our trip through the forest, but we emerged onto the prairie track before the long line of dusty farming machines rotating into town for maintenance, which was a blessing. We rolled down the windows and took off the bug nets, and I watched the glorious sunset as Karen dictated her medical notes. The evening breeze was welcome after the heat of the day.

"That little boy. Tosh.” Karen put away her pod. “He didn't suffer any broken bones from his fall today, but he has a limb deformity I want to check. It could be a badly healed break."

"We don't visit the nomads on a regular basis,” I said, slowing for a particularly deep pothole.

"You know what I suspect."

I didn't respond.

"Abuse."

I increased our speed a little to stay ahead of the dust gusting up from the farming machines on the track behind us.

"It's pretty clear,” she said. “Mae's eye. Dot's scars. Grandpa's limp. And what we saw today."

"Alliance law would say we shouldn't interfere."

"Alliance law! I don't see a lot of evidence that Lloyd or anyone else on this planet is concerned about Alliance law. And the Alliance does have laws about abuse."

I searched through the deepening twilight for sparks on the horizon that would indicate we were approaching Tumbling River. I wished Karen would stop talking about Tosh.

"You've been here eight years. Am I wrong?"

"No.” The exchange between Tosh and Fred replayed in my mind. And other incidents.

"But?"

"No ‘but.'” The dry track became firmer and I picked up speed. “You're right. This isn't the first time we've seen . . . I guess, family violence. Some in town are pretty upset about it."

"And what have they done about it?” She braced herself against the jolting of the rover.

I shrugged, feeling rotten. “Not much, I guess."

"Nothing?"

I avoided a rock. “Lloyd's talked to some of the nomads."

"Who?"

Who? “The nomads don't have government or elders or chiefs."

"And have Lloyd's discussions made any difference?"

The lights of town winked in the distance. I felt as though Karen were grilling me, as if she held me accountable. “Not really."

"What do the nomads say?"

I shrugged. “This is how you raise kids. It's good for them."

"Spare the rod and spoil the child,” she said with disgust. “Has anyone suggested there are other ways to discipline?"

"That's tough, Karen. That brings us right into cultural non-interference."

Karen gave me a look that asked since when was Lloyd, the Corporation, or even the Alliance really concerned about cultural noninterference? When I dodged her hint, she sat back the best she could in the rocking vehicle and glared out the window.

Sunset faded and the prairie sped by, and I was relieved when she didn't bring up the topic again.

* * * *

Doc had only vaccinated the few nomad families who traveled close enough to one of our settlements to come in touch with colonists. Karen, on the other hand, had me question the nomads she vaccinated to discern their contact patterns, pointing out that microbes could move well back into the hinterlands on the goods we gave them, infecting nomads who'd never met a colonist.

In our travels together we saw a lot of evidence that many adult nomads—not just Fred—disciplined their children to the point of injury. Karen kept notes, and when she judged the time was right, presented them to Lloyd.

Lloyd eyed her and said he'd look into it.

She also shared her data with anyone who would listen, which pissed Lloyd off, because then he got complaints from all the villages. He asked Karen to let him handle the situation—in other words, to keep her nose out of it—but they both knew she was within her rights to share her information.

* * * *

A couple of months after Karen and Michael arrived—a busy time when the second quarter's harvest was almost in and the Corporation was already putting seed machines onto the fields for the next planting—I was sitting with a cup of mint tea at Jasmine's Café reading over a treaty Lloyd was negotiating with the nomads for land to be used as an airport, checking for errors in the translation software. Jasmine had a couple of tables under an awning that kept the heat off in the dry season, and today, sheltered me from the rain. Dan, my husband, was scheduled to return from his xenoneurology conference before the third quarter was out, but I was feeling restless and lonely.

It was mid-afternoon when Karen nudged my elbow. “Hi."

Sam, her four-year-old, hung from one arm and she wrestled with an umbrella in the other.

I flipped my pod to sleep and pulled out a chair. “You just saved me from having to sort out a mess of irregular verbs that don't conjugate properly in the software I wrote. Tea?"

"Love some.” Karen sat in the chair.

"Mummy!"

"Today was a special day at school.” Karen pulled off her rain slicker. “A nomad family's in town, and the auntie brought three little ones to school. Wish you'd been there to translate. Michael turned it into a lesson on alien-Alliance communication."

"Mummy!"

"But Sam isn't old enough for school.” I ordered Karen's tea.

The child in question flopped to the veranda and rolled into a third chair, knocking it over.

Karen righted the chair. “It was a good opportunity, so Michael suggested I bring him. But he's tired now. We're going home for a snack and a rest before supper."

"Mummy!” Sam threw his face into his mother's lap.

"Here.” I fished in my pocket. “Can I buy him a cookie?"

Sam's face poked over the edge of the table.

"Well,” Karen smiled. “We usually try for a healthier snack, but he's been pretty good all afternoon."

"Can I? Can I?” Sam hopped on one foot.

"All right."

I gave him a credit. “Just ask Jasmine for the one you want."

He snatched the credit from my hand and ran toward the door.

"Say thank you!” Karen called.

Sam poked his head back through the door. “Thank you!” And was gone.

"So Dan will be back next month?” Karen smiled as Jasmine's daughter brought tea. “What's he presenting at the conference?"

"Integration of sensorimotor pathways in nomad children,” I told her. “He's pretty pumped about it. He found a relationship between environmental stimuli and develop—"

A scream shrilled from the café, accompanied by the thump of something falling.

"Sam!” Karen sprinted from the table before I even recognized the voice as her son's. I rushed into the café after her.

Sam lay, still and white, next to a toppled table, cookie smashed on the floor beside him. Lem, the nomad who'd brought his family to town, bent over him, fangs bared and fist raised. Jasmine and the other patrons were frozen in a tableau of horror.

Karen inserted herself at her boy's side as Lem straightened.

"Lem." I nodded toward the door. "It's crowded in here. Let's go outside."

Lem ducked a nod, and picking up a loaf of bread, ambled with me into the rain. "You like my rain jacket?" He tucked the bread into the oversized pocket of the yellow slicker. "Lloyd gave it to me. It's your custom to be covered." He bobbed his head in respect.

The rain battered my shoulders. "The little boy. In there." I gestured toward the café. "Did you hit him?"

"Yes. He wasn't watching where he was going. He ran into me."

"Lem, you can't hit colonists. It makes them very angry."

Lem reflected on this. He nodded. "A custom," he said.

"A strong custom," I confirmed. "Very strong."

"Very well. I will remember." He touched my knuckles with his, and strolled toward the school. I doubted if he would remember.

* * * *

Sam suffered a “mild” concussion, but Karen said there was no such thing. The effects of concussions were cumulative and led ultimately to brain damage, she said. Michael was incensed and he hounded Lloyd, but if it did any good, neither Michael nor Karen could see it. Lloyd and I spoke with Lem, and I think Lloyd tried to explain to Michael and Karen that living on another sentient being's planet came with costs and cautions. We weren't here to interfere with the nomads’ culture. “'Even with its dangers, life in Tumbling River is a hell of a lot better than life on some space station,'” Karen quoted him, shaking her head.

Neither Karen nor Michael was satisfied, but it was clear that the matter would be dropped. Lloyd suggested cultural sensitivity and prudence be added to the school curriculum, then took off for a couple of weeks’ negotiations with some of the more distant tribes. Michael seized on this idea and implemented it immediately; and, to his credit, taught a balanced viewpoint that didn't vilify the nomads.

Dan came home and I took a week's holiday, during which nothing outside the two of us mattered. Then life returned to normal, with Dan spending a week in the bush for every forty-eight hours he was at home, and me going back to feeling lonely and restless.

* * * *

The third quarter ended, and with it, the rain.

Dan and I were sitting on our veranda after dinner one evening; he, working on a paper on infant brain development in nomads, and I, flipping through local news items on my pod. The sky sparkled with constellations. Faint conversation and the glow of pods drifted to us from two or three of our neighbors’ verandas. Someone up the road—the McTaggarts, likely—had a campfire. The smell of wood smoke and the hum of distant harmonies underlay a perfect evening.

"Did you hear?” I sipped my wine.

"Hmm?” Dan silenced his earbuds.

"They're going to put gravel down on the first five miles of the road onto the savanna.” I scanned ahead in the article.

"Waste of money.” Dan flicked his pod to sleep. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. He'd been analyzing data all day. “The fuel cell factory'll be online next quarter. Won't need the roads. Good thing, too."

An engine roared in the distance. I closed my pod and shut off the bug screen to let my eyes adjust to the dark, and peered down the road. “I wonder if that's Karen."

"Awfully late.” Dan cradled his beer in his lap and put his feet up on the stool.

"I was talking to Michael before dinner.” I tracked the sound of the engine as the rover approached. “He said she was called out to one of the seeder fleets south of town. An accident."

"What happened?"

"I think the operator twisted an ankle or something, tripping on the stairs in the control tower. Not major. Michael was surprised she wasn't back."

The rover's lights winked through the trees and the vehicle crossed the little bridge and came up the bank, its headlights bobbing as it negotiated the ruts. It stopped across the road and down a little, in front of Jason and Jessica's place. Their pods blinked out and Jason turned on a porch lamp that bathed the dirt in front of their veranda in a pool of brilliance. Karen strode toward the house as Jessica descended the steps.

"I'm going to see what happened.” I set my wine glass down and trotted toward the small group. Even from this distance, I could tell it was something bad.

As I came up, Jessica turned toward her husband, questioning.

"Sure we can help out,” Jason said. “For how long?"

"Thanks!” Karen hurried toward the truck. “I don't know how long.” She opened the back door of the rover and pulled out two wide-eyed nomad children who shivered and clung to one another.

Dan came up behind me. I caught his frown as he took in the scene.

"Their mother was killed,” Jessica explained.

"Killed—” A chill ran down my back. In the years I'd been here, I'd come to know most of the nearby nomads by name. “Who?"

Karen brought the two little ones up and Jessica knelt and held out her hands. Fred's older two.

"Mae?” I asked. Numbness prickled me all over.

Dan put an arm around my shoulder.

Karen nodded grimly. “I thought I could take Tosh,” she said. “He's close to Sam's age, I think. Do you have room for the baby?"

"Of course,” Dan said. “What happened to Mae?"

Karen's face darkened. “What do you think?"

"Fred?” Dan said.

Karen stroked the soft hair on the back of the nomad child's head. “Fred."

"How can you know?” I asked. “You—"

"I was there. I saw it.” Karen's nostrils flared. “I was bringing the operator back in the rover and I had to stop suddenly to avoid hitting Mae. The family was foraging in the field for unharvested roots, and they were hidden by the grass. Fred pushed her back for being in my way. She tripped and hit her head on a rock."

"Then it was an accident.” I had to confirm.

"If you want to call it that,” Karen said contemptuously.

I bit back my temper.

"But you're sure Mae's dead?” Jason asked.

"I'm a doctor, for God's sake!” Karen rubbed her face in frustration. Then she took a breath. “I don't . . . Fred didn't mean to kill her. I'm sure he didn't."

"But why do you have the children?” My words sounded like an accusation, even in my own ears. “Why didn't you leave them with Fred and Dot?"

"Fred?” Karen cried in amazement.

The children's eyes darted back and forth between Karen and me, and I was glad they didn't know English. At least, I didn't think they did.

"He's their father,” I pointed out.

"He's an animal!"

Her words smacked me in the face.

"I mean . . ."

The others watched us, alert.

Karen looked from me to Jessica to Jason and Dan, then abruptly turned back to the vehicle. “You know what I mean."

Jessica hustled the children into the bungalow.

I followed her to the road. “We can't interfere—"

"Sometimes, we can!” she shot back.

"Karen! You can't just—"

"Fred was in no shape to take them.” She stopped at the rover. “He wouldn't leave Mae's side. He was bewildered. Overwhelmed.” She climbed in. “No one could get his attention. Not even the children."

"What about Dot? Or Grandpa?"

"They weren't there.” She started the engine. “We have to get these little ones inside and put them to bed. I'll bring the baby to your place."

I backed out of the way so she could close her door. “But tomorrow, we have to talk to Lloyd. They'll have to go back."

"I already talked to Lloyd.” She put her elbow out the window. “You know what he said? He said it was none of our business. He said we should leave the children out in the middle of the savanna. Ha!"

"I know it sounds hard—"

Her scowl bore into me. “Without their mother those children will die."

* * * *

The next day, Dan set his research aside to watch the baby while I went to talk to Lloyd.

"Fred gave his consent.” Lloyd leaned back in his chair and, removing the dictamike from his ear, dropped it in front of one of his active screens. Lloyd's office was the only place in Tumbling Rock with climate control and it was blessedly cool.

"Voluntarily?” I leaned over his desk. “He understood the translation?"

"I drove out to the field myself, last night, after I talked to Karen. I think the kids should've stayed with Fred, but he gave permission.” He waved the paper with Fred's “X” on it.

I pulled my chair out from my desk. “For how long?"

"'Til next quarter. Then we'll see."

"I don't like this, Lloyd. It's like we're making it up as we go along. When two cultures come into contact there's always a disaster."

"We've done pretty well so far.” He fished a radialite from among the jumble of work gloves, coffee cups, notes, drives, and mini image displays on his desk.

"We've taken four children from their parents, split them up, and put them into unfamiliar homes. They don't speak English, they've lost their mother—"

"Want to see if we can find Fred?” Lloyd dropped the radialite into a pot and threw in a two-serving coffee net. “He took off last night, carrying Mae. South.” He filled the pot with water. “I don't have manpower to scour the bush for one nomad."

"Don't you think it's a priority?"

"Amanda. You know how big the savanna is. How many pockets of bush there are."

I did. All too well. I had to admit, my idea wasn't helpful.

"Listen. When he shows up again . . ."

I slumped back in my chair. “In the meantime, the children'll be raised human."

The radialite pinged and Lloyd took it out of the pot. “Well, we can't have creatures with sharp teeth and claws hurting people.” He poured the coffee into two mugs.

"And how'll they reintegrate into their family at the end of the quarter?"

"I'm not saying it'll be easy.” Lloyd pushed a mug toward me. “Karen has the energy to take leadership on this. She can do some research. Let the kids visit nomad families. Find out about their songs and stories and beliefs. And food.” He leaned back in his chair, holding his mug in two hands. “You're in a good position. You speak the language. Dan knows more about nomad infants than anyone in the Alliance. If anybody can do it, you two can."

"Dan and I both work."

Lloyd sipped his coffee. “Show me a family that doesn't."

"The nomads."

Lloyd snorted. “Touché.” He put his cup down. “You're right, Amanda. We are making this up as we go along. We make up a lot of things as we go along. I wish the nomads had something that passed for a government who'd take responsibility, but they don't. If you can't care for the baby, let me know. I'll find someone who can."

"No.” Something with a dozen legs floated on top of my coffee. I set the cup aside. “Dan and I are a good choice. But it's not right."

"Think of it this way,” Lloyd said. “Something like this probably had to happen sooner or later. The nomads are going to need someone from their own race who can bridge both cultures. One of these kids, when they grow up, will be well educated to serve their species’ needs. This could be a good thing for them."

"Right. Just keep thinking that, Lloyd.” I stood to go. “And at what cost."

* * * *

Karen and Michael, Jason and Jessica, and Dan and I worked as a team. As a result, the nomad children spend most of their time together, frequently at Karen and Michael's house.

Dan was delighted. “It's the opportunity of a lifetime,” he said to me one day after lunch a couple of months later, as I washed dishes and he changed the baby's diaper. This day, we had all four of Fred's children for the morning—fighting with each other, as usual—as well as Sam, and Jessica's little girl. Karen had just arrived to take the entire brood for the afternoon and was gathering up all the kids and their paraphernalia on the veranda.

The heat had started early, and my afternoon in Lloyd's office editing his report was tantalizingly close. I smiled at the baby—toddler, really—with pale skin and undifferentiated sandy-brown fur. Dan and I had named her Julie and she'd already begun to repeat the name, “Chewie.” Now she stared idly at the streaks of sunshine streaming through gaps in the curtains, not protesting the diaper change. “She sure is a good baby. Doesn't cry. Is that normal?"

"I'd have to compare her behavior with the notes I took out on the savanna.” Dan weighed her, measured her, read her blood work, and took a quick brain scan. “But with daily measurements for three months, on four children of different ages, my data will be rock solid,” he grinned. “Once I get it inputted and analyzed."

I wiped my hands and took the baby from him. She laid her head on my shoulder. “This isn't your personal research project."

Karen poked her head in the kitchen. “I think I have all their stuff. See you at . . . about six?"

"Great."

There was a yelp from the veranda followed by noisy tears. Dan dashed to the doorway but by the time I poked my head out, Karen was kneeling between Tosh and Sam, her hands covering a play pod that Sam still clutched. One of Tosh's older brothers stood behind him, snarling, while Jessica's little girl watched. Tosh's other brother lay quietly in the shade for once, panting with the heat.

"It's mine!” Tosh cried.

Well. He'd certainly picked up an Alliance sense of property rights.

"I had it!” Tears streamed down Sam's face. “He took it!"

"He called me a monkey!” Tosh bared his teeth.

"Sam.” Karen took the play pod from both boys. “It's not okay to call names. Tell Tosh how you feel."

"I was just playing with it and you grabbed it! I got mad."

"Tosh." Karen looked at the small nomad. "Tell Sam how you feel."

"The pod's mine. You took it without asking. I wanted it back," Tosh said. He sat on the veranda.

"But can I play with it?” Sam asked.

Tosh shrugged. His older brother lost interest and lay in the grass.

"We could do a two-player,” Sam offered.

"Okay."

"Good. Both of you.” Karen gave Tosh the play pod and he rolled on his side and gave it to Sam.

"You're getting pretty good at the language,” Dan said.

"I get lots of practice with that scenario.” Karen hoisted a bag of toys onto her shoulder.

I handed her the sleepy baby. “Kids are learning to get along. It's good."

She gave me a deep-felt smile. “I love them.” She gave Julie a hug and the little one squirmed. “All of them."

* * * *

The end of the quarter came and went, but Fred didn't return. My work with Lloyd, Karen, and others took me out to two or three of the nomads’ closest dwelling places, and Karen and I took all of Fred's children to visit kin there, but we didn't see Fred. I asked about him, and about Dot and Grandpa. Some seemed to know them but others didn't. None had any reliable information about Fred's whereabouts, his plans, or even how he was doing. And every time, as soon as they saw the children, the nomads found some reason to punish them.

The heat became fierce, and nobody traveled if they didn't have to. Mostly we lay in the shade, drank water, and tried to get a little work done. Fred's children seemed to take the heat worse than anyone, which was surprising, sleeping for long stretches. I wondered if the baby was sick, and asked Karen to check her out. Karen had the same concern about Tosh and his brothers, but she readily admitted she wasn't an expert on nomad physiology. “But I did take baseline data when I first came, a year ago,” she remembered.

She compared the data. “Their current activity levels are significantly reduced and all of them have lost weight.” She shook her head. “It's not the weather. They're not sick. Neither their antibody levels nor white blood count is raised. Besides, the first thing we did was inoculate them against all our known bugs."

"Could we have infected them with something unknown?” I asked.

"Possible. We wouldn't know where to begin to look for such a thing.” She gave me a worried glance. “But I'll see what I can find. I'll hunt for parasites, too."

Dan delved into the masses of data he'd collected, both on the savanna and over the past months in the children's new environment. He checked chemicals in the buildings, pollution from the vehicles, dietary variations. Neither he nor Karen came up with anything.

The nomads’ response, when we brought the drooping children to see them, was inexplicable. Without exception, the adults became hysterical, hissing and baring their teeth and trying to scratch and bite them. Karen removed the children to the safety of the vehicle, and I tried to get to the bottom of their fears.

"Why do you punish the children? They've done nothing wrong."

"They're sick!" the nomads said. "They're sick!"

"Sick? Have you seen this before?" Were they worried that the children would pass on the illness? Is that why they tried to kill them? "How can we help them?"

"Bite them! Scratch them!"

I could get no more from the nomads than this, but they were truly agitated. Twice, groups of them ventured as far as Tumbling River, both times seeking to attack the children. Lloyd and I eased the situation each time, but we all became more vigilant.

In the end, all we could do was to continue providing the most nurturing environment possible. We made two of each meal, one for ourselves and a different one for Fred's children. We stripped their rooms and made nests of twigs and branches and leaves for them to sleep on. We hugged them, read to them, and played with them. But as the fourth quarter wore on and the rainy season approached, they became, if anything, more listless.

After a week of darkening clouds and rising wind, when the first-quarter rain splashed fat drops on the dusty soil, Tosh died.

Michael came to tell us. It was late afternoon. The rain had let up momentarily.

He sat at our kitchen table. “He didn't wake today at all."

Dan rocked the baby, who slept in his arms.

"His breathing was shallow. Neither Karen nor I could think of anything more to do for him but stroke his hair and hold his hand.” Michael's face was pale. “When I came home from school this afternoon, Sam was playing by himself in the living room. Karen was in the bedroom by Tosh's side. But he was gone."

Dan and I held hands across the table, unable to fathom the finality of it.

* * * *

Necessities distracted from the pain. I fetched Jessica and Jason, their daughter, and Tosh's brothers. We went with Dan and the baby to Karen and Michael's. Tosh's brothers took one look at Tosh and began to fight.

"Stop that!" Jason said, but the boys paid him no heed, and had to be taken from the room and separated.

"We'll have to let Lloyd know,” Michael said. “Jasmine. Some of the others."

"I'll take care of it.” Dan nodded.

"I can drive out to the dwelling place tomorrow,” I said. “I'll let the nomads know.” Even as I said it, I dreaded the thought. But I was the logical one to do it.

"I'll watch Julie,” Jessica said gratefully.

There were a hundred details to arrange. Dan left on his errands and people came by to express condolences.

I left to put the baby to bed. I held her close and sang to her and cuddled her in her nest of leaves as the rain pattered outside the open window. She curled her small fingers around my one large one and closed her eyes, nestled on my shoulder.

It was close to midnight, as Dan and I were having a glass of wine at the kitchen table, when Lloyd knocked on the door. “I saw a light on,” he apologized.

"Come in.” Dan fetched a chair.

Lloyd joined us at the table. I filled him in regarding the arrangements.

"I'll come with you tomorrow,” he offered.

"Thanks, Lloyd. I appreciate it."

He looked at both of us. “I know you've been working on this problem for months. But—Amanda, I have to be direct."

I gave him my undivided attention.

"This death changes everything. My decision to let Karen take the children was wrong."

"Fred?” Dan poured Lloyd a glass of wine.

Lloyd accepted the glass. “We still don't know where he is. We need to inform him as soon as possible, of course. But, no. It's bigger than that."

Dan corked the wine and sat down.

Lloyd turned the stem of the wine glass between his fingers. “This is the first sentient to die in Alliance hands in forty years. At least, the first one where we're clearly culpable."

"Culpable!” I cried. “Lloyd! We've done everything—"

"I know.” Lloyd spread his hands on the table. “But you have to look at it from the Alliance standpoint. This wasn't a lowlife, shot carrying out a crime. The Judiciary'll ask, and with good reason, why these children were taken out of their culture and away from their parents."

"Questions we'll have no trouble answering,” Dan said. “They would've died, otherwise."

"But not at Alliance hands."

"I don't believe I'm hearing this,” I cried. “How can you—?"

"I know.” Lloyd leaned on the table. “I agree. Otherwise, I never would've allowed you to foster the children. I didn't think this was going to happen. Clearly.” He sighed. “But it has. And it could be an interplanetary incident."

"Wait.” I tried to read his face. “We can't find the next of kin. The nomads we've met want nothing to do with the orphans. And the nomads have no government to sue us. How can it be political?"

"The nomads—any of them, kin, individuals, groups—would be well within their rights to accuse us of lethal cultural insensitivity,” he said. “Worse. Xeno Intolerance."

"They couldn't!"

He held his hands up. “And I agree, the nomads are not likely to pursue action, legal or otherwise. But they don't have to."

"Then—?” Dan asked.

"Minority representative groups from the Alliance could do it on their behalf."

"What for?” Dan pushed back from the table. “It won't bring Tosh back to life."

"They don't care about Tosh. They'd see our action as an erosion of the laws against cultural noninterference. Today, Tosh, tomorrow, any one of them. They'd want blood. A precedent."

Dan put his arm around me.

"Amanda.” Lloyd leaned back in his chair. “Tomorrow, when we go out to the nomads’ place, we need to return the children."

Dan looked up at him sharply.

Lloyd was right. But he was wrong, too. Letting the children die at the nomads’ hands was still letting them die.

And the thought of taking Julie back, seeing her bitten and slapped . . .

My stomach soured and I leaned into Dan's solid warmth for comfort. How could I give my sweet baby over to that?

Dan's fingers curled into a fist on his knee. “Lloyd, this is a bad decision. It's expedient for you, but you can't pretend none of this happened just by sending the other children back."

"We don't know that the children will die if we put them back in the environment they came from.” Lloyd stood to leave. “I think we're pretty clear that they'll die if we keep them."

Neither Dan nor I had a response.

Lloyd smiled grimly. “You know, for the most part I really enjoy my work here, in this little backwater.” He looked around the small, dimly lit kitchen. The rain continued to pour outside. “But right now, I'd rather be anywhere else. Doing anything else."

* * * *

I don't recall that I ever experienced a worse day in my life than the one that followed. Lloyd drove. I sat in the front seat holding the baby. Jessica and Jason brought the boys. Michael stayed home with Karen, and Dan watched Sam and Jessica's little one.

The trip was endless. Streams had sprung up in all the usual spots, and we had to hunt for places to cross. We got stuck in the mud twice and had to winch our way out. Lloyd mumbled something under his breath about the damned delays at the quarkian fuel cell factory, but for the most part, we made the trip in silence.

We didn't have long to wait for the nomads to return. They hadn't gone far, foraging, and had apparently heard the winch whining as it dragged us out of the creek and into the clearing. This time there were about five families there.

We left the children sleeping in the vehicle and Lloyd and I took three of the adults aside to tell them about Tosh. One of the nomads said she knew Dot and would pass on the information. They were subdued and saddened; mute, with sorrow-filled eyes.

As we talked, one of them, a silver haired grandpa, shuffled off to one side of the clearing and lowered himself into the long, wet grass. He slapped his palm on the dampened earth and made a low sound, like a moan or a song. Slap. Slap.

The second man joined him.

The woman, head lowered, returned to the others, circulating about the subdued group with low words. One by one, they approached the old man and took up places about him, near or far, facing or away by some pattern I couldn't fathom, and took up the drumming and keening. Even the youngest child found his place in the grieving circle, and with each new voice, the death song grew in volume.

Before the woman could become part of the rite, I drew her aside. “We have others,” I told her.

Her eyes sharpened.

"The boy's brothers, and a baby sister."

"Where?" But the woman's scrutiny had already flicked to the rover. She made a low yelp, and three women at the edge of the grieving circle lifted their heads and scrambled to their feet.

Lloyd opened the cab door and he and Jason lifted the boys out. Immediately, the adults growled, bit the children, slapped them and chased them toward the dwelling trees. The boys submitted to the beatings, too lethargic to run, but they whimpered and looked at Jessica and Jason, trying feebly to get back to them.

"Don't hurt them!" Jessica ran to one of the boys, but a nomad woman blocked her way. "It wasn't their fault!"

The woman kicked the boy until he dragged himself toward the tree.

Jason wrapped his arms about his wife, burying his face in her neck as tears streamed down her cheeks.

Julie cried and clung to me, her tiny body trembling in my arms.

"Amanda.” Lloyd's voice was low in my ear, just audible above the keening.

The baby's eyes were big and round and frightened, staring uncomprehendingly into mine. Salt ran from my nose to the corners of my mouth and my heart sagged as I lifted her, struggling, from my hip. Her little ribs seemed so fragile beneath my big hands. She gripped my shirt, screaming as though I was trying to submerge her beneath choppy waves. I had to pry her fingers from my hair.

The older woman who took Julie slapped her face, tore her diaper off, and bit her leg before carrying her up a tree. The ache in my core split me in half.

All the nomads turned their backs on us then, the worst insult they could make. We stood in the rain-soaked clearing, staring up into the screen of leaves, shivering, alone, lost.

One by one, the mourners abandoned us for the canopy, moving their grieving circle out of the taint of our presence.

We trudged back to the rover to begin the dismal journey home.

* * * *

The rainy season was quiet in Tumbling River that year. I told Lloyd I'd come to a decision; I wasn't going to bend the rules any more. Lloyd got mad, as if I'd suggested he was to blame for the entire affair. He said, “Oh, come on, Amanda. You bend the rules all the time, just like everyone else. Every time you get behind the wheel of that rover you're polluting this planet. Don't be so damned sanctimonious."

He was right. The only way to do no harm would be to leave the planet. Even then, I would leave my footprint somewhere. And, hell, I wasn't going to abandon Dan or take him from his work. I wouldn't leave Tumbling River.

Lloyd didn't have a lot to say to me at the office after that, beyond what was necessary. Somehow, I didn't have much reason to visit Karen, either. I returned to my hobby of carving idyllic scenes into the antlers I'd collected over the years, trying not to wonder where Julie was, how she was growing and changing. If she was alive. With the rain, I didn't have a lot of incentive to leave the house.

Dan and I talked about the ordeal, but we couldn't make much sense of it. However, we heard nothing from off-planet. If the incident was going to blow up politically, it didn't do so right away. So all the preparation we made, arguments about why our actions were justifiable, drifted to nothingness.

Dan, though, was able to make use of the wealth of data he'd collected. It took him months to analyze.

One afternoon, toward the end of the second quarter, he came in from town and stood by the table where I was carving an imagined mountain scene in a particularly large antler. “Amanda."

There was fear in his voice. I put down my tiny drill and turned off my safety shield.

He frowned at his hands, leaning on the table. “Karen's been charged with Lethal Xeno Intolerance."

My skin turned to ice.

As though speaking the words made them real, he paled and put his hand on the back of the chair to steady himself. “And four counts of Endangering a Sentient. I just heard from Lloyd.” He slumped into the seat beside me and leaned on the table.

Lethal Xeno Intolerance. A capital crime. Punishable by execution.

I tried to wipe away the shakiness prickling my forehead. My mind couldn't begin to process it all. “—Us?"

"Not yet,” he whispered. “We could be accessories."

"Jesus God."

He slid his hand over my frozen fingers. There were years of red tape before any execution. We'd be imprisoned. Separated. The closest facility for women was two light years away.

I began to tremble. Alliance prisons housed dozens of species. A conviction of Xeno Intolerance—Lethal Xeno Intolerance—put a prisoner beneath the feet—beneath the contempt, beneath the excrement—of every other convict.

"Murderer, rapist, child molester, xeno butcher. That's the pecking order, isn't it?” he said bitterly.

"Michael?” I managed. “Jason? Jessica?"

"And Lloyd."

"It's impossible. It's—"

"No."

I blinked at him. “We didn't know!” I pleaded. “We thought we were doing the right thing! How can they—"

He couldn't meet my eye. “I . . . there's more."

I could barely speak. “What?"

"For months, now . . .” he bit his lip.

I wanted to rip the words from his throat.

"I've been trying to find a way to explain what I saw in the data. I didn't want—"

"Goddamn it!"

"All right. Nomad neurology—there are lots of similarities with humans. But the differences, especially in child development—” He swallowed. “Brain growth in nomads is tied to their immune system. Cognition and immune responses are stimulated by cascading proteins—"

"From—” My God. “Injuries?"

He nodded. “Imunostimulation from bruises and cuts prompts—"

But that wasn't right. “Tosh—and Julie, and their brothers—they loved to be cuddled. They loved to be hugged."

"Not at first. Remember?” He took my hand. “I think—I think they learned to crave the hugs like . . .” He shrugged. “Pain killers. The only physical stimulation they could get."

"What?"

"I know. From our standpoint, it's counterintuitive."

Visions of the baby in my arms, holding her, singing to her— “All that time—"

"All that time.” Dan took my hand. “We thought we were doing the right thing. But we were wrong."

"If taking those children was wrong, does that make child abuse right?” My mind recoiled. “There is no right, Dan. No wrong. Not now."

He hadn't followed the thought far enough.

"It isn't just Tosh,” I said.

He squinted in puzzlement.

"Not even just Alliance law, bending the rules. Or our complete disregard for—everything. This entire planet.” I tried to shake away the impotence I felt.

Dan's face cleared. “The Alliance.” His hand balled into a fist. “We're only scapegoats. Karen, you, me. Human sacrifice to assuage Alliance conscience. Let our guilt be spread across the media files, while the Alliance rapes a few more planets, a few more species—"

"No!” He still didn't see. “We can't blame the Alliance. Or the Corporation. It's us too. It's me.” I tried to soften the blow with gentle eyes. “It's you, Dan."

His fingers stabbing the table, stopped.

"I relied on rules instead of . . . complexities.” Relief and wretchedness bloomed in my chest. “I even had the audacity to take away Fred's name, for God's sake. For my own convenience.” I hadn't seen the disrespect of that act.

But now, I hoped, I was beginning to. “I'm going with her.” My words promised courage I wasn't sure I could sustain. “Karen."

"To court?"

"Yes."

"You can't.” He licked his lips. “We're not charged yet."

"I have to."

"This is one you can't win, Amanda. No one can."

The dread in my stomach at my own audacity was somehow mixed with . . . lightness. Conviction. Certainty. “The words have to be said, Dan. Regardless of the outcome, the mirror has to be shown."

Grief turned to moisture in his eyes. “Yes,” he whispered. He nodded. Touched my cheek with his knuckle. “Then I'm coming, too."

"You're sure?"

"We may be only two voices. But voices that must be heard."

I took his hand. And maybe . . .

Maybe in that mirror's reflection, we'd see beyond the dichotomy of right and wrong. See the labyrinth that was truth.

Copyright (C) 2012 Susan Forest

[Back to Table of Contents]

Reader's Department: IN TIMES TO COME

Our May issue features two big items: the powerful conclusion of Robert J. Sawyer's Triggers, and Daniel Hatch's novella “The End of Ordinary Life” (a title that, by the way, could apply equally well to Sawyer's novel!). Major events in history, like revolutions and first contact, are often thought of as dramatic, large-scale confrontations among world leaders and their armies. They can be much quieter—perhaps even unnoticed by most—until they're well underway, but in the end no less dramatic or significant. Hatch's revolution unfolds in a part of the country that most people probably view as too remote and empty to have anything to do with them, and his story has the bonus that it will make you feel as if you've been there, even if you haven't. It may even inspire you to go and look for yourself, especially after you see Bob Eggleton's cover. . . .

We'll also have stories by Tracy Canfield and recent Nebula winner Eric James Stone, and a science fact article by H. G. Stratmann on “Space Weather: The Latest Forecast.” Most of us usually think of weather as a fairly local phenomenon, the stuff that goes on in Earth's atmosphere. But, as anyone who's ever experienced an aurora or the other effects of a big solar flare knows, what happens here can be very much influenced by what happens elsewhere—the Sun, for instance—and we need to be aware of that, too.

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Science Fact: PLANETS (OOPS, PLANETOIDS) X, Y, Z, AND W: WHAT THE KUIPER BELT TEACHES ABOUT THE DAWN OF THE SOLAR SYSTEM by Richard A. Lovett

When Pluto was dethroned as a planet, many thought it silly. Where once there had been nine planets and a bunch of asteroids, there were now eight, the asteroids . . . and Pluto. What was the point?

But it turns out that Pluto isn't unique. Beyond the orbit of Neptune lies a shadowy zone of frozen worldlets orbiting so slowly that few have made complete circuits since the American Revolution.

This region, called the Kuiper belt, has fascinated science fiction writers since its existence was first suggested fifty years ago by astronomer Gerard Kuiper,[1] who proposed it as the source of the icy moons of Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune. In ensuing the billions of years, Kuiper presumed gravitational perturbations had caused most, if not all, of the belt's denizens either to fall inward and be captured as moons, or be completely ejected from the distant Sun's feeble hold.

But it turns out that Pluto (and its large moon, Charon) aren't the only survivors. At least a thousand such bodies are now known, and the tally is growing. Several, in fact, are large enough that any might have been dubbed Planet X, had astronomers stumbled across them decades ago, in a then-vain search for a tenth planet.

The largest is Eris, named for the Greek goddess of strife and discord. It orbits three times farther out than Pluto and, at 2,300 kilometers in diameter, is close enough to Pluto's size that it has indeed produced (mild) discord—over whether it is or isn't bigger than Pluto. (The latest estimates make Pluto monarch of the Kuiper belt, but not by much.)

Behind Eris, the list includes:

* * * *

* Haumea (shaped like an American football, 2,000 kilometers long). It's named for the matron goddess of the island of Hawaii, in honor of the Mauna Kea Observatory, where it was discovered;

* Sedna (another football, 1,600 kilometers long), named for an Inuit goddess of the sea, who dwelt below the frigid Arctic waves;

* Makemake (a 1,500-km sphere), named for the fertility god of Easter Island (because it was discovered shortly after Easter);

* Pluto's moon Charon (1,200 km);

* Orcus (950 km), named for an Etruscan/Roman god of the dead;

* Quaoar (890 km), named for the creator god of the Tongva (or San Gabriel) people, native to the Los Angles area where it was discovered; and

* Ixion (650 km), named for an outlaw god of Greek mythology.

* * * *

From a science-fictional point of view such planetoids are intriguing because they're all considerably bigger than any asteroid but Ceres: a whole new array of worlds for exploration. But they're also intriguing to scientists because, like the asteroids, they're remnants of the early Solar System—leftovers from the planet-forming process, now frozen in time.

Finding more planetoids has become a priority for several astronomers, including Matthew Holman, an astrophysicist at the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory at Harvard University, whose team is using a new telescope called Pan STARRS-1, atop a 10,000-foot peak on Maui, Hawaii.

With an aperture of only 1.8 meters, Pan STARRS-1 isn't huge. What makes it unique is that it has an extremely wide field of view, capable of examining, in a single image, a swath of sky forty times larger than the full moon. It also has four 1.4-billion-pixel digital cameras, the largest ever built.

All this technology was designed to scan for potential Earth-impacting asteroids. But it's also ideal for spotting Kuiper belt objects down to 300 to 500 kilometers across. (Bigger telescopes can see much smaller ones, but only if they know where to look.)

In its first months of operation in 2010, Pan STARRS-1 had already found ten new Kuiper belt objects, Holman reported at a January 2011 meeting of the American Astronomical Society, in Seattle, Washington. “This represents just the tip of the iceberg,” he said. “I think we'll find several hundred to a thousand."

Another telescope, the Large Synoptic Survey Telescope, is being planned for a Chilean observatory. It should be able to push the size limit down to 50 to 100 kilometers once it becomes operational in 2020. “We would expect about 30,000 objects,” says one of the project's leaders, Lynne Jones of the University of Washington.

But astronomers aren't content with counting planetoids. They also want to know their orbits. What they've found is that there are two basic populations of Kuiper belt objects.

One, sometimes called the cold classical Kuiper belt (or simply cold Kuiper belt) lies in the same plane as the rest of the Solar System, mostly about four to five billion miles out from the Sun. These objects, which comprise about half of those discovered to date,[2] aren't “cold” because they're more frigid than the rest, but because their sedate, in-the-plane orbits are dynamically calm.

Others zip high out of the plane, like satellites orbiting above the Earth's poles. These are dynamically “hot,” and are referred to as the hot Kuiper belt. They're particularly interesting because, as we shall see, they probably didn't form in their present orbits. “There's currently a lot of debate about what happened in the early history of the Solar System,” Jones says. “We used to think things were relatively quiet, but we can see that this is not the case. They are dynamically much more excited than we would expect."

* * * *

A Belt that Shouldn't Exist

Figuring out what it is that kicked so many Kuiper belt objects out of the plane of the Solar System isn't the only problem facing theorists. Kuiper's original prediction notwithstanding, modern scientists have struggled to explain why there's anything out there at all.

"Classical planet-formation models have a hard time growing big objects at this distance from the Sun,” says Alex Parker, a graduate student in planetary science at the University of Victoria who spoke at an October 2010 meeting of the American Astronomical Society's Division of Planetary Science (DPS) in Pasadena, California. “Unless you start with a lot more mass in the primordial disk and then get rid of it later, these models can take longer than the age of the Solar System to grow the kinds of objects we see."

In a moment, we'll see that classical planet-formation models have a lot of other problems, but for the moment, let's look at two basic issues.

First, all planet-formation models postulate that the Solar System began as a disk of dust and gas circling the Sun like the brim of a sombrero. This is a familiar image, not much changed over the years. But this protoplanetary disk didn't extend outward forever. Most likely, it stopped somewhere around 30 to 35 astronomical units (AU) from the Sun, not far beyond the orbit of Neptune (which lies at 30 AU).[3]

Unfortunately, the Kuiper belt doesn't seem to know the theory. Eris swings in an elliptical orbit ranging from 38 to 98 AU. Makemake is between 45 and 55 AU. Haumea ranges from 35 to 52, and Sedna's minimum distance is 76 AU, while its maximum is more than 900.

Perhaps the protoplanetary disk was simply larger than previously thought. But that leads to the problem alluded to by Parker, which is that even with thousands of objects in the Kuiper belt, there just isn't a lot of mass: no more than one-tenth that of Earth by one estimate. Even if continuing discoveries raise that figure, the total mass is still far too small if a protoplanetary disk dense enough for these objects to have formed extended that far. Under traditional models, the Kuiper belt either shouldn't be there or it should be a lot more densely packed.

A few years ago, these problems led theorists to propose that today's Kuiper belt objects must have formed much closer to the Sun, possibly in the same zone as Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune. Once formed, they were flung outward by dramatic shifts in the orbits of these planets, most importantly Neptune.[4]

The theory, known as the Nice model (because it was developed, in part, by scientists from Nice, France) quickly became a leading explanation for the Kuiper belt. “In some of these simulations, they even suggest that Uranus and Neptune switched places,” Parker said.

There's just one problem.

At the DPS meeting, Parker announced he had found at least one class of Kuiper belt objects for which this simply couldn't have happened. These objects are binary pairs, like Pluto and its moon Charon.

Such pairs are common in the Kuiper belt—estimates are that at least 30 % of objects in the cold classical Kuiper belt exist in pairs or larger groupings. But Parker found seven such pairs (probably harbingers of many more) that are so widely separated they circle each other in a very slow waltz, with orbital periods from four to seventeen years. “They're delicate,” he said, “weakly bound."

Any close gravitational encounter with a giant planet would have pulled them apart and sent them in different directions. “They would not be there today if [they] were ever hassled by Neptune,” Parker said.

Nice-model theorist Alessandro Morbidelli, of the Laboratoire Cassiopee, Nice, France, agrees. “The Parker result calls for at least some tweak in the Nice model,” he says. “Either the cold Kuiper belt (or part of it) formed in situ, or it was pushed to its current location by a mechanism less violent than envisioned."

Stephen Tegler, a planetary scientist at Northern Arizona University, concurs. “We have to come up with a way to tweak the Nice Model, or they formed in situ,” he says.

* * * *

Collisional Cascade

Enter Mike Brown, a cheery astronomer from California Institute of Technology who looks a bit like a young Bill Gates.

Brown's Twitter handle is “plutokiller” because of his role in kicking Pluto off the list of planets. But he's also codiscoverer of Eris, Sedna, Makemake, Haumea, and nearly a dozen others, and author of How I Killed Pluto and Why It Had It Coming. And like just about everyone studying the Kuiper belt, he too has come up with surprises to upset the theoreticians’ apple carts.

In his case, the problem stems from the newly found worldlets’ densities.

Traditional theories say planets condensed bit by bit out of the primordial disk in an incremental process that saw microscopic particles coalesce stepwise into ever-larger ones that themselves collided and merged, until eventually they formed planets.

But, as we noted before, the solar disk should have been getting rather tenuous out toward the Kuiper belt. “To get something that large, you would have to have had to accrete from a very large swath of the outer Solar System,” Brown says. This should have averaged out any random variations in the nebula's composition. “You would think they would be some of the most uniformly comprised objects in the Solar System."

Pluto fits this model perfectly. Its density is about 2.0 grams per cubic centimeter, indicating that it's composed of a fifty-fifty mix of rock and ice, just about what theoreticians would expect.

But not everything is like Pluto.

The first clue came from Haumea. It's not merely elongated, it's flattened.

Earlier I called it football-shaped. But that was a simplification. Brown calls it a football “that's a bit deflated and stepped on.” It's also spinning end-over-end so fast it completes a full revolution every four hours. Small asteroids often look, and spin like that but Haumea is long enough that it wouldn't quite fit between San Diego and Vancouver, British Columbia. And it turns out to have a density of about 3.0 grams per cubic centimeter. “That's 100 percent rock,” Brown says.

As far back as 2006, Brown suggested that Haumea (then known as 2003 EL61) might be the core of a larger planetoid that got clobbered early in its early history. A glancing blow would not only have set it spinning, but knocked off its icy outer mantle. Supporting this is the observation that it has two tiny moons that are almost pure ice. Could these be chips off the original ice block?

A year later,[5] his team reported additional evidence: the discovery of five other fragments whose orbits indicate they were blown away from Haumea near the dawn of the Solar System. The fragments (the largest of which might be 400 kilometers across) appear to be made of nearly pure ice—just right to be more of Haumea's missing mantle.

One anomalously dense world created by a mantle-busting collision could be a fluke. But as more and more numbers come in, the densities of large Kuiper belt objects appear to be all over the place, ranging from well below 1 gram per cubic centimeter (giving them densities akin to that of frothy ice) to nearly as dense as Haumea.

Brown suggests that this means these objects didn't form by gradual accretion. Instead, he thinks they originated from large chunks, several hundred kilometers in diameter—large enough to have already differentiated into rocky cores and icy mantles.[6] These primordial objects, sometimes called planetesimals, then bashed together in big collisions, a process he calls “pyramidal growth."

That way, even the largest bodies could have formed in only a few steps. Each collision would have blasted debris into space—the source of today's smaller Kuiper belt objects, like those associated with Haumea. Sometimes, two ice-depleted objects would have collided, producing a larger ice-depleted object. Other times, icy chunks of one-time mantle would merge into larger, rock-depleted worlds. Still other collisions would produce Pluto-like mixes of rock and ice.

This only works, however, if the main growth came from collisions between large objects, rather than stepwise accretion from small ones. Otherwise the law of averages would make everything come out more or less identical.

Further evidence comes from Parker's binaries. They are so far apart that it's not merely a close encounter with Neptune that would have disrupted them. They would also have been knocked out of each other's orbits if they'd been pelted by too many kilometer-sized objects: a strong indication that there were never many such objects around—or, in other words, that Kuiper belt objects started out big.[7]

* * * *

Rapid Condensation

All of this is interesting, but it begs the question of where the first round of objects came from. Somehow, the ancestral Kuiper belt had to have jumped from solar disk to planetesimals without going though intermediate steps.

And this isn't the only clue that something might be amiss with the stepwise-growth models. It's not that the traditional theory isn't appealing. It's nice, orderly—tidy, in fact. Microscopic bits of dust and ice coalesce, first into dust bunnies, then into tennis balls, beach balls, etc., until you wind up with objects large enough to be called planetesimals.

But there's always been a problem. It's easy to get from dust cloud to dust bunnies. And it's easy to model what happens to planetesimals once they reach kilometer size. But there's a no-man's-land between, Brown says, in which the models just won't let the midsize objects accrete. Instead, they quickly lose orbital speed from gravitational interactions with the other component of the solar disk: gas. You could think of it as a type of gravitational drag whose effect is that tennis-ball-sized objects and the like spiral into the Sun more rapidly than they can merge into larger bodies.

It's one of those things that tends to inspire scientific hand-waving. So there was this disk of gas and dust, people want to say. It formed a bunch of little clumps, and somehow (enter the hand-waving) these stayed around long enough to merge into things the size of football stadiums. These then merged into planets, moons, the Earth, etc.

That step in the middle has been the elephant-in-the-living-room of planet-formation models. “It's a mystery nobody wanted to think too hard about,” Brown says.

The answer, he and Parker believe, lies in an emerging set of new planet-formation models. Like their predecessors, they start with a dusty solar disk, but instead of focusing solely on stepwise accretion, they include the effect of eddies, vortexes, and other turbulent flows in the early disk.

Brown compares these turbulences to brooms sweeping dust particles together. By creating dense zones in the solar disk, they make for a short-cutted process of planet formation in which “big hunks” fall together without need for intermediates. “The first things [to be formed] are 100, 200, and 300 kilometers, instead of millimeters,” he says.

What we then have is a Kuiper belt in which everything originated as rapidly condensing planetesimals. Today's big objects are the result of Brown's collisional cascade. Small ones are fragments blown away by collisions. And the mid-sized ones are survivors from the original population of planetesimals.

But we still have problems.

To begin with, the only collision we have traces of is that which stripped Haumea of its mantle. The ability to trace fragments from it clearly shows that it occurred out in the belt, but that's the only such collision astronomers have been able to trace in that manner. In fact, it's rather startling that there were ever any big collisions in the Kuiper belt. It's a gigantic zone, covering far more volume than all of the inner portions of the Solar System combined. It's hard to imagine how the objects we see out there ever managed to hit each other often enough for Brown's collisional cascade to have occurred.

And we still have an overall missing-mass problem. The turbulence models still require a minimum density for Brown's “big hunks” to condense. As before, there either should be more (or bigger) objects out there . . . or none at all.

Possibly some of the missing objects were pulverized by giant collisions that reduced them to dust that then fell into the Sun by gas drag. But Morbidelli doesn't buy it. “You cannot hope that big objects disappear into dust by collisions,” he says. “They are too big to destroy completely."

Instead he believes that the Nice model is still the best explanation. In fact, he thinks Brown's collisional cascade adds considerable support for the model by indicating that Kuiper belt objects originated in a more closely packed region, where there was more opportunity for mantle-busting collisions.

Furthermore, the Nice model solves the missing-mass problem, because most encounters with Neptune would not have been gentle. In the process of being flung outward, computer models show that only one object in a thousand objects actually winds up in the Kuiper belt, he says. The rest are ejected into interplanetary space. “That is exactly what we need,” Morbidelli says.

* * * *

Dual Origins

That model gets us all of the big, collision-produced objects and delivers them nicely to their present locations. Parker's binaries and the cold classical Kuiper belt are another story. “His result implies that at least part of the cold Kuiper belt never experienced encounters with Neptune,” Morbidelli admits.

Perhaps, he suggests, the hot and cold Kuiper belts were produced by different mechanisms. This would mean the hot Kuiper belt objects were produced as we've already discussed, by dramatic encounters with Neptune. But if Neptune played a role in moving the binaries outward, it had to have been by a much less violent mechanism.

Morbidelli and Harold Levison, of the Southwest Research Institute, Boulder, Colorado, suggested one such mechanism as far back as 2003: an orbital resonance with Neptune.[8] Such resonances are common in outer-planet moon systems, where, among other things, they create intriguing features in Saturn's rings. In this case, the binaries would have formed farther out than Neptune's original orbit, then been slowly nudged further by a resonance with Neptune, as Neptune itself migrated to its present position. And that's not the only possibility, because we don't know exactly how Neptune reached its modern orbit. “Many variants are possible,” Morbidelli says.

But we again have a missing-mass problem because now we can't use Neptune to toss most of the initial population of objects off toward the stars. “This is a great conundrum,” Morbidelli says.

To date, there is no clear solution. One possibility is that the solar disk did extend into the Kuiper belt, with enough density for planetesimals to form, at least as far out as the locations of Parker's binaries. But that far out, perhaps it contained a lower fraction of dust. That might alter the process of planetesimal formation, blocking the rapid-condensation turbulence process from working.

"It might be that well within the edge, most of the solids are converted into big planetesimals,” Morbidelli says. “Well beyond the edge, no solids are converted into planetesimals, and [dust clumps] simply spiral inward by gas drag.

"Close to the edge, maybe a little fraction of the solids is converted into large planetesimals, while most still spiral inward. If this were the case (and we have no proof that this was) then a few large planetesimals could have formed in the 35 to 45 AU range. [These] would constitute the current cold belt, without need to remove excess mass."

This also would have the advantage of suggesting that the existence of Parker's binaries means exactly what it appears to mean: that they formed in situ. But, Morbidelli notes, at present all of this is mere speculation. “To go beyond will take a lot of time."

* * * *

Rogue Planets

From a science fictional perspective, this provides wonderful fodder for stories. In his classic novels Gateway and Beyond the Blue Event Horizon, Frederick Pohl postulated a CHON (carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen) food factory on a protocomet far out on the edges of the Solar System. It lay in the Oort cloud, a shadowy zone that might be the birthplace of comets, nearly a light-year from the Sun.

The Oort cloud is a long way out, however. The same resources should be findable in the Kuiper belt (which wasn't discovered until 1992, more than a decade after Pohl wrote his stories).

Many stories have envisioned asteroid-belt civilizations. The Kuiper belt might provide something similar, not too impossibly remote, especially for super-loner types who think the asteroid belt is too crowded.

What we know about the Kuiper belt's formation also raises interesting possibilities for interstellar space. In a recent paper in Nature, a team led by Takahiro Sumi of Osaka University, Japan, announced the discovery of free-floating Jupiter-sized worlds in interplanetary space. Using a technique called gravitational lensing, in which otherwise too-faint objects are revealed by their gravitational effect on light passing by them, the scientists spotted ten such planets in a single search—enough that they concluded that rogue Jupiters, unbound to any star, might outnumber stars by a factor of two to one.[9] These giant planets would have gotten tossed away from the stars of their birth by processes similar to those that, under the Nice model, may have hurled myriads of smaller bodies off into interstellar space.

The bottom line is that planets and stars need not go together. And while rogue Jupiters probably wouldn't be particularly habitable, rogue Plutos or Sednas might be—especially because there are arguments that some of these bodies might even have liquid water, generated by internal heating.

Science fiction has long been fascinated with generation-ship stories in which colonists head for the stars in giant spaceships that will take thousands of years to complete their voyages: ships that become entire worlds to their crews. But maybe we don't need such spaceships. Maybe we don't need to go to the stars. Maybe everything we need is out in interstellar space, waiting for us to hitch a ride.

Or maybe these worlds are already teeming with aliens who've been so long aboard that they see no need for stars, or the dangers that go with them. And that's enough maybes for a whole suite of stories.

Meanwhile scientists are struggling to learn more about the Kuiper belt.

Happily, come July 2015, we'll get a trove of new data. That's when NASA's New Horizons spacecraft will give us our first close-up look at two Kuiper belt objects: the no-longer-planet Pluto and its moon Charon.

I'll write more about New Horizons and Pluto in a future article (including the case for why Pluto, and possibly rogue Plutos far between the stars, might have liquid water). For the moment, one thing New Horizons will do is allow astronomers to tally the numbers and sizes of craters on both worlds. That's important information about the types of objects that have battered them. If there are lots of small craters, then the Kuiper belt is full of kilometer-sized objects, even if we don't know why. If there are mostly giant impacts and a relative handful of small ones, that's further confirmation that the Kuiper belt's progenitor planetesimals were indeed large.

Pluto itself probably won't be all that useful for this because it has a tenuous nitrogen/methane atmosphere that likely produces frost deposits thick enough to wipe out evidence of old craters.

But Charon is too small for even a tenuous atmosphere. “Charon presumably has an ancient surface that's not really been much perturbed for the past 4.5 billion years,” Brown says. “So you can see the cratering record. I think that when you combine that with some of the more intensive studies we'll do between now and then, we'll know the basic outlines [of Kuiper belt history]."

And that, he says, could have broad implications, including shedding more light on our own planet's origins. “We could well be completely rewriting how planets form,” he says.

* * * *

About the author:

Richard A. Lovett wears several hats for Analog: not only is this his 37th fact article, but he's also written 35 science fiction stories, plus Biologs and a popular series of articles on fiction-writing.

Outside of the science fiction community, he writes for Nature, National Geographic News, Cosmos, and other general-audience science publications, as well as for an analytical chemists’ magazine. He also writes for running magazines and coaches distance runners, including two women (and possibly a third by the time this article prints) who've qualified to run in the U.S. Olympic Team Marathon Trials.

A former law professor, he also holds a degree in astrophysics and a Ph.D. in economics, and spent years as a food-safety writer and chemical engineering consultant (not at the same time). Find him on the web at richardalovett.com.

Copyright (C) 2012 Richard A. Lovett

* * * *

1 en.wikipedia.org/wiki/GerardKuiper.

2 An exact tally is surprisingly hard to find. I've based this estimate on a scatter diagram on Wikipedia: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:TheTransneptunians73AU.svg. For our purposes, the point is simply that there a lot of members in each group.

3 An astronomical unit is the distance from the Earth to the Sun, approximately 93 million miles.

4 If this sounds a bit odd, that's because our knowledge of orbital physics has changed in the last few years. That's because, while Newton's laws do indeed predict planetary motion, they do not lead to tidy solutions in a universe with more than two gravitationally attracting objects. (There are a few exceptions for the “three-body problem,” producing stable “Lagrangian” configurations, but these require special conditions.) Not all that long ago, it was the work of a lifetime to crunch the figures needed to track the interactions of just a few bodies, let alone thousands. Supercomputers changed that. What we've found is that the behavior of protoplanets is startlingly chaotic. Rather than orbiting sedately, they interact randomly and soon start flying in all directions—almost like what you'd get if you dropped a bucket of superballs. What this means is that orbits, especially in the early Solar System, are simply not stable. Even large planets can move: a startling result to people raised on an earlier generation of physics.

5 Brown, M., et al, “A collisional family of icy objects in the Kuiper belt,” Nature446, 294-296 (15 March 2007), doi:10.1038/nature05619.

6 Differentiation would occur if the object was large enough to generate enough internal heat to melt ice. Rock would then settle to the center, where it would remain when the ice refroze.

7 The same may also have applied to the asteroids. When we plot their diameters, we find a hard to explain “bump” or excess at diameters of about 100 kilometers. In a 2009 paper in Icarus, a team led by Morbidelli argued that reproducing this bump via asteroid formation models requires starting with planetesimals of at least 100 kilometers in diameter—and possibly bigger. See Morbidelli, A., et al, “Asteroids were born big,” Icarus 204 (2009) 558-573, doi:10.1016/j.icarus.2009.07.011, www.oca.eu/morby/papers/BIG.pdf.

8 Levison, H.F., and Morbidelli, A., “The formation of the Kuiper belt by the outward transport of bodies during Neptune's migration. Nature426, 419-421 (27 November 2003), doi:10.1038/nature02120.

9 Sumi, T., et al, “Unbound or distant planetary mass population detected by gravitational microlensing,” Nature473, 349-352 (19 May 2011), doi:10.1038/nature10092.

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Short Story: A DELICATE BALANCE by Kevin J. Anderson

Sometimes circumstances require absolute precision—but when humans are involved, precision doesn't come easy.

The test results came back positive. Birenda felt her life change in a cold instant, as if one of the colony airlock doors had burst open and sucked her out into the planet's poisonous atmosphere.

In another time and place, she would have felt great joy to learn that she was pregnant, but this was not old Earth; it wasn't even how the Antorra colony was supposed to be before the disasters happened.

Inside their private family quarters, her father, Walton Fleer, received the results with better grace than Birenda did. “We knew this would happen sooner or later.” The weight of administrative responsibility and the rigors of harsh colony life had aged him greatly, and everyone knew—statistically speaking—he wouldn't live to be an old man. “A new life comes, an old life must go. It's the way of the colony, the only way we can maintain the delicate balance."

A new life comes, an old life must go. How Birenda hated those words.

"And my name is next on the list.” Walton gave a little shrug, pretending it didn't matter to him. “Only some of us survive, or none of us survive."

She clung to her father as if clipping a lifeline to his belt. “I never meant to be the one.” Her voice hitched. “I'm sorry.” But she could apologize, and pray, the whole day cycle, and that wouldn't change the fact.

Walton sounded so stoic, as if he were giving a speech to the members of the colony. “This way, at least I'll know I have a new grandchild coming."

"A grandchild you'll never see,” Birenda said, then clenched her jaw so tightly she thought her teeth might crack.

Pregnancy tests were rarely needed on the desperate colony, since everyone knew the consequences of population growth and took careful precautions. As the current head of the small colony, Walton Fleer had managed to purloin one of the kits from a locked med-center cabinet after Birenda whispered her fears to him. It was just the two of them, counting on each other. After she used the test strip, the older man waited dutifully beside her, kneading his fists together as they waited an agonizing five minutes for the chemicals to work their damning magic. Pregnant.

Walton did not rail against her for being stupid and careless; Birenda had done enough of that herself. Birth-control measures were available to all colonists, everyone knew how to use them, and everyone understood that “accidents” were not acceptable. Each new life was a miracle, a blessing not to be spurned, but for a colony existing on the razor edge of survival, pregnancies must be meticulously planned. When the others in the colony did find out, they would hate her for such irresponsibility, particularly those couples that had already petitioned the colony council to be next in line for having a child.

Her father tried to sound soothing. “You won't show for a few months, so we don't have to do anything yet. Nobody else needs to know. We can figure out what to do."

Birenda bit her lower lip and nodded, cursing herself for her weakness. “That'll buy us a little time."

She reached out to embrace her father. In a few months, she could always hope that a deadly accident might happen to someone else, and then there would be no need for drastic action to maintain the delicate population balance. Maybe she could pray for that.

* * * *

The Antorra Colony had started out so well, when measured by hopes and dreams. The original ship carrying two hundred first-wave colonists all bound together by common beliefs had been dispatched from Earth to one of a handful of planets that long-range probes had identified as suitable for Terran life. Although the ten-year voyage had seemed difficult enough, their vanguard ship was much faster than the huge main colony vessel that plodded along behind them. The initial vessel would arrive fifty years before the main group of colonists did.

As true pioneers on an untamed world, the first-wave colonists carried all the basic equipment, survival modules, prefab shelters, seed stock, and embryos they would need to establish a settlement and prepare the world for human habitation. The pioneers were expected to have a thriving colony ready-made by the time the rest of the settlers came. That was the plan.

Birenda had been born en route and was four years old when the vanguard ship reached Antorra. She'd been much too young to understand the miscalculation that doomed them, but she remembered the shockwaves of terror, dismay, and hopelessness as soon as they arrived.

The long-range scientific probes were wrong, miscalibrated somehow; vital measurements had been scrambled by cosmic rays during the transmission, or perhaps the analytical instruments were poorly engineered. Antorra was not fit for human life after all. Although other parameters were within Terran norms, the chlorine concentration in the air was far too high. Not even the hardiest Earth algae could gain a foothold and begin converting the atmosphere.

The pioneers had traveled in space for a decade, with no turning back, only to reach a place where they could not survive.

Captain Tyrson marshaled all the colony equipment and pulled his people together. The habitation domes were self-contained, and the colonists could huddle down and eke out an existence. Antorra would never be the bright new home the faithful pioneers had hoped for, but if they could last for half a century, then the main colony vessel would arrive with all the expansive domes, materials, and scientific experts required to create a rough, but viable colony.

First-wave engineers erected power arrays outside to gather energy from sunlight that filtered through the caustic greenish clouds, but the chlorine corroded the arrays, and they failed one by one. However, with certain austerity measures imposed, an emergency nuclear generator provided enough energy to meet their immediate requirements. For a while, it looked as if the colony just might survive.

Then the corrosive atmosphere ate through the seals in the greenhouse dome, killing seven workers and, worst of all, obliterating much of their seed stock, the only food they could hope for on Antorra. A death sentence.

All of the data had already been transmitted to the main colony vessel that was plodding its way across the interstellar gulf. Among the hundreds of scientists and terraforming specialists aboard the huge vessel, somebody would find a solution in the decades available before they arrived—but that wouldn't help the initial colonists survive in the meantime. . . .

The captain had sealed himself in his main quarters with the full inventory of all their tools, their food stock, their energy supplies, as well as a breakdown of their bare-minimum needs. He did the math, double-checked his results, and could not refute the cold equations.

Now, as Birenda brooded alone in her chamber for hours during the sleep period, she reviewed the analysis and grim rationale that Captain Tyrson had left behind in his video farewell. The recordings were required study for every one of the children who had been born and taught on the Antorra colony.

Captain Tyrson called a special meeting of handpicked individuals from among the colonists—himself and eighteen others. It was an eclectic mix of specialties, and no one could guess why they had been chosen. The tense and curious group gathered in the loading-dock module that contained the machinery, environment suits, and equipment needed for exploring the hostile planet.

Monitor cameras captured the captain's last speech. Birenda had watched it over and over, and it still brought tears to her eyes each time.

As he faced the eighteen men and women he had selected, Captain Tyrson said, “This colony's resources can support—at most—174 people. No matter how we tighten our belts, no matter how we conserve, there isn't enough to sustain more people than that. According to computer models, only 174 can survive until the main colony vessel arrives. The choice is hard: Only some of us will survive . . . or none of us will survive."

Then he had opened the airlock and dumped the nineteen “extraneous personnel” into the deadly atmosphere, himself included. No one lasted out there longer than two minutes.

In a calm and detailed video message left in his quarters, Tyrson explained exactly why he had chosen those particular nineteen—because their skill sets, their health, their age made them the most dispensable. Birenda's mother was among them.

In the twelve years since Captain Tyrson's brutal decision, 174 had become a sacred number, rigidly controlled. Although the actual minimum number for survival could not be precise, due to individual weights, metabolic rates, or behavior patterns, the criterion had to be absolute so that it could be followed without question. It was the only way they could endure the grim necessity.

When leaving Earth with high hopes, the initial colonists had all expected to marry and have large families, to spread humanity across a verdant new planet. Now that was impossible.

Rigid birth-control measures were imposed and strictly enforced, but the colonists could not outlaw all births, because the Antorra colony needed a new generation, a turnover of personnel to stay alive for the next half-century until rescue arrived—there had to be children, had to be replacements. Each time a colonist died in an accident, one carefully selected couple was granted dispensation to have a child.

In Year 3, when a female chemical engineer developed abdominal cancer from radiation exposure, the colony doctor suggested she might recover with thorough treatment, but the treatment would render her sterile. By unanimous vote—Birenda was seven at the time—the Council decided to euthanize the woman, and she had accepted her fate for the good of the colony. Some of us survive, or none of us survive. After her death, one of the healthy young couples received approval to have a child.

Once the first such decision had been made, the rest became so much easier to accept.

In the following nine years, the Council developed several lists—waiting lists for couples who wanted to have children, and ranking lists of all Antorra settlers prioritized by age and value to the colony. Birenda's father had been an astute colony leader for the past two years, but he was now the oldest member, and his name was next on the mortality list.

It was a delicate balance—174. No more, no less.

And Birenda had gotten pregnant.

* * * *

"How could this happen?” Deputy Bill Orrick pretended to be horrified. “Do we need to impose mandatory sterilization on all fertile young women except for those approved to breed?"

Her father tried to sound calm and reasonable. “This is our colony's first accidental pregnancy in a decade. Haven't we already taken enough extreme measures?"

Birenda could see the strange smile as the deputy considered the consequences and came to the obvious conclusion. Before she could answer him in front of the Council members, Orrick shot a glare at her father. “You know what this means, Administrator Fleer. I'm sorry, but the list cannot be changed. It's agreed upon by every member of the colony."

"I know what it means,” said Walton Fleer. “I always knew this day was coming, and I'm content to know that I will get a new grandchild out of it."

She and her father had kept the secret for as long as they could: Birenda hid her morning sickness and wore looser clothes so the swell of her abdomen didn't show, but it was only a temporary fix. Everything about Antorra Colony was only a temporary fix.

She had considered finding a way to abort the baby, researching techniques or drugs in the colony databases. She had told her father this was the only solution, but he was deeply upset. “I will not stay alive on those terms, at the price of an innocent child. We may have set aside many of our beliefs in order to survive here, but I will not ignore that one."

Each day, during the dreadful waiting, she had watched engineering teams work outside in the hazardous environment trying to build a new habitation dome out of scrap materials. It was hazardous duty and accidents happened—frequently. A fatal mishap, or even a sufficiently grave injury that warranted euthanasia, would even the numbers, keep the 174, and her father wouldn't have to die so that she could have her baby. Then he could live for a little while longer, be a grandfather, hold his baby grandchild. With the colony's reality, Birenda knew it couldn't last, but everyone on Antorra clung to each day, grasped every moment.

But, week after week, all the workers remained safe. No one developed a terminal disease. No one accidentally died. And the time came when Birenda and her father could no longer hide the pregnancy.

"But she wasn't next on the list to have a child!” said Lucia Boma before the Council. “My husband and I petitioned two years ago. We were supposed to be next."

With tears streaming down her face, Birenda had been forced to confess the full story, raising herself up for censure—not for immoral behavior, but because she had upset the delicate balance of the colony.

She and Ando Rivera were about the same age, and it was assumed that they would be matched as a couple, since the colony offered so few possible candidates. Every settler had his or her set of duties; she and Ando were often assigned to go outside to set up racks of genetically modified algae webs, testing strain after strain to see if anything could survive in Antorra's environment.

One day, while returning from their duties, Birenda and Ando had been in the changing room, removing their suits, stripping down to clean jumpsuits as they had done hundreds of times before. They both were sixteen, saturated with hormones, half naked, alone together—and it had just happened. They hadn't paused to consider preventive measures.

Ando had avoided her for many days afterward, and she hadn't even been able to tell him when she first knew about the pregnancy. . . .

"She will keep the baby,” her father said to the Council, as if daring anyone to countermand him. “There will be no talk of forcing her to get rid of it, just because this wasn't in our plans. I know what it means, and I have several months to prepare myself before my daughter gives birth."

Deputy Orrick looked pleased and self-important; he'd been waiting for his turn as the next administrator, as soon as Walton Fleer was gone. Birenda despised the man. Her father was a long-term thinker who planned for the future of the colony, aware that he would be long gone when the main colony ship arrived in thirty-eight years to save them all; Orrick, on the other hand, considered only his own brief flash of prominence once he became the colony administrator. (He shouldn't be looking too far forward, Birenda thought, since his name was also on the list, and only a handful of names from the top.)

After glancing at his fellow Council members, the deputy folded his hands and gave a solemn nod. “One life begins, and another ends. Some will survive, or none will survive."

Birenda's stomach knotted, and she forced herself not to say anything. When the solution came to her, it seemed so clear and so obvious, she caught her breath.

She would have to kill Orrick.

* * * *

For the next several months, Birenda concocted and discarded numerous possibilities, all the while hoping that her thoughts of death did not taint the life within her. She felt overwhelmed with love for the unborn baby, a powerful nurturing instinct. She wanted to protect it, provide a home for it.

Dr. Hajid provided basic prenatal care but performed only cursory tests, clearly resenting her for her indiscretion, which had sent repercussions through the fragile equilibrium.

Even before leaving Earth, the bulk of the colonists on the main ship had considered the tough, conservative pioneers to be a little backward; they refused to check the sex of a baby or perform anything but the most rudimentary of prenatal screenings. The colony doctor was even more aloof than necessary with Birenda, though, as if he didn't care whether the baby was healthy or not. She realized that some in the colony secretly hoped for her to miscarry, or perhaps die in childbirth, so they could get their chance.

Nevertheless, Birenda knew that the baby was progressing well. She studied all the information available in the colony library about pregnancy and childbirth—and she found plenty, because Antorra should have been a place teeming with children after only the first few years.

As she thought of the future, Birenda was sure that her child would still be alive, perhaps even the colony administrator, when the main ship arrived. Thirty-eight years . . . that wasn't so much to ask for her son or daughter. What seemed less likely, though, was that her father would survive long enough for the baby to remember its grandfather. The vagaries of the list would shift and change, and sooner or later Walton Fleer would be the one.

But perhaps not now.

When she reached her eighth month, Birenda felt a growing sense of urgency. As soon as the baby was born, her father would be taken away. She was young, and since this was her first pregnancy, she knew she could easily go into premature labor. She had to put one of her plans into practice, before it was too late. She had to get rid of Deputy Orrick, so the numbers remained balanced.

Birenda reviewed Captain Tyrson's last message again and again, drawing strength from his brave words. All her life she had been taught the realities of the colony. Every person inside the sheltered domes knew the math and the reasons for it. The colony had to survive. Some of them, or none of them. All was never an option.

It wasn't hard to think of a way to kill Deputy Orrick; she simply had to choose which method would be easiest. Since life on Antorra was already so hazardous, a slight tweaking of life-support parameters would do the trick. Perhaps she could loosen a seal in his environment suit the next time he was scheduled to do outside work. Or she could arrange for a leak in his private quarters, allowing poisonous chlorine air to seep in while he was sleeping.

Planning a fatal mishap for the obnoxious deputy did not strike her with any undue terror. She'd seen people euthanized all her life as their names rose to the top of the list, and accidents claimed many more. Only the number 174 remained a constant.

Day after day, Birenda sat for long hours with her father, resting her hands on the curve of her stomach, but she kept her dark thoughts to herself. Back in their quiet quarters, Walton Fleer was preoccupied, his mood bittersweet. He savored every remaining moment he had with his daughter. She didn't dare tell him what she planned, because then he would feel obligated either to stop her or report her to the Council. Deep inside, she didn't want him to know.

Walton talked wistfully of her mother, his wife, and the times they had spent together during the long journey from Earth, the plans they had made for their future, and how they had hoped Birenda would be only the first of many children. Birenda remembered the woman, but not well. Her most vivid image of her mother was from Captain Tyrson's security tape. She had studied her mother's face, then watched as the woman and eighteen others were sucked out of the airlock, sacrificed so the rest of the colonists could survive.

Birenda wished she had known her better.

"We'll only have a few more weeks together, child,” her father said, then let out a sigh. “It'll be enough."

To kill Orrick, Birenda decided to use one of the new mutated strains of algae that, according to preliminary tests, exuded an extremely toxic substance. It was a trivial thing for her to slip it into the deputy's daily food ration. In a way, she thought, his death and autopsy would provide valuable medical data for the colony's benefit.

Sitting next to her father, she was distracted, thinking of her plans. Walton Fleer just stared at her, drinking in every detail of her face. “I love you, Birenda,” he said.

* * * *

Because she had already planned it through, and also because she felt the ticking time bomb inside her womb, Birenda acted quickly. She did not feel guilty, made no effort to speak with Deputy Orrick one last time. She was simply moving his name to the top of the list, maintaining the colony balance: 174. Her father would stay alive, and the baby would have another loving, nurturing presence for as long as it might last.

She supposed she would have to marry Ando Rivera. After her confession during the bitter Council meeting, the young man had acted strangely around Birenda, as if he didn't want to see her, as if he blamed her for getting pregnant. But that would change after the baby was born—for the good of the colony. Maybe someday their son or daughter would look up to Ando with the same warmth and appreciation as Birenda looked up to Walton Fleer. She smiled at the thought.

When her father came back to their quarters, his sickened expression told her that she had succeeded. “It seems I have been given a reprieve,” he said. “Deputy Orrick just died."

"That's terrible.” Birenda needed all of her strength to keep from jumping up with joy. “How did it happen?” The words sounded false even to her ears.

"Extreme allergic reaction to one of the algae strains in his food. They'll be running other tests, but he's dead . . . we're in balance. 174.” He sank into the hard chair, shaking. “I was ready. I had my mind made up. But I can't pretend that I wouldn't like to see my grandchild."

Birenda clamped her mouth shut before she could reveal what she had done. He must never know.

Then the first hard contractions hit.

* * * *

In the medical center, Dr. Hajid tended her, fully professional now, though he still didn't approve. With the baby coming, a new life for the colony, he was the doctor and he took his responsibilities seriously. His face was pinched, his dark eyes intent, but he voiced no criticism. He didn't really know what he was doing, with little opportunity to gain obstetrics expertise, considering the few births allowed, but he was the best the colony had.

Her father was there in the delivery room—she saw his face watching over her, and she felt comforted. Birenda knew that everything was all right. The delicate balance was kept at 174, thanks to Deputy Orrick's unfortunate end.

Even when she heard Dr. Hajid say something about complications, as if from a distance even farther away than the main colony ship, Birenda wasn't concerned. She was hazy through it all. Perhaps Hajid gave her too many painkillers. The doctor's face looked grave as he said he needed to do a Caesarean, and her father granted permission.

Birenda lay back under the anesthetic, drifting, comforted. As the gray fuzz tightened to a pinprick around her eyes, she had a last glimpse of her father looking worried, but giving her a smile of reassurance. . . .

When she awoke, she had a hard time focusing on Dr. Hajid's face in front of her. She felt disoriented, tried to concentrate. He was speaking in words as sharp and hard as his medical instruments. “The delivery was successful."

Her eyes tried to fall closed again, but she forced them open. Of course it was successful, she thought. But she didn't notice her father there, and wondered if he was holding the baby.

She wanted to see him, croaked his name, but the doctor wasn't finished. “There has been one surprise—fortunate or unfortunate, depending on how you look at it."

"Where is my father?” she asked.

"I am sorry to say that he is gone.” Hajid didn't look sorry at all.

Then the doctor and his assistant came close to her at the bedside. He was holding a blanket-wrapped bundle, as was his assistant.

Two babies. Birenda didn't understand.

"Administrator Fleer surrendered himself right away, while you were still unconscious. He felt it would be better that way.” The doctor gave her a shallow smile. “But he did want to congratulate you on the birth of your twins."

Copyright (C) 2012 Kevin J. Anderson

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Novelette: ECCE SIGNUM by Craig DeLancey

Fighting fire with fire can be risky, but when the alternatives are worse . . .

"Is it a sign of middle age that everything seems to me a metaphor?” I waved at the chalk outline of David Ressar's corpse. A round flatscreen was set into the center of the living room floor of David's Manhattan brownstone. It portrayed, as always, a geosynchronous live shot of Earth taken from directly above. The outline of where David had fallen, already dead, sprawled across the Western hemisphere. A red stain of blood had dried over most of North America.

"Vitruvian man, fallen,” I said. “Or: Man on the Crossroads. Or: ‘Oh my America, my new-murdered land.’ What do you think?"

Edgar fixed his green eyes on me, unconvinced by my gallows humor. “Janet, are you all right?"

"Of course not, Edgar.” I sat on one of David's couches. Edgar and I were alone here. The police were finished with the house, and had handed it over to Edgar as David's executor. Our every word echoed loudly against the hardwood floors and sparsely decorated walls of the empty home. The only other sound was the occasional honk of an electric car passing outside.

"David Ressar was the last of his generation,” I said. It still smelled like David in here: like worn leather, sandalwood, and old books. The last because the room was lined with real paper books. That would seem an affectation to most people nowadays; why read Yeats when you could play a movie anytime in your head? Poetry doesn't translate over telepathy. But David had collected the books during his youth, and kept them all his life, tokens of a passed age. I expected David to hobble into the room at any minute. But he wouldn't. Never again. “He was the last of the first generation of our kind. He was our spiritual leader this last decade. Of course I'm not all right. But I did my crying at the funeral. I can keep it together. Besides, this must be twice as hard on you as it is on me. He was your mentor. Practically your father."

Edgar nodded.

I looked back toward the hallway. A white outline chalked in the doorway showed where David's German Shepherd, Hera, had fallen. I sighed. “How am I going to explain that to my dog, Juno?” I asked Edgar. “Hera was his sister.” And then, contrary to my promise, I started crying. Why are we always so much more sentimental about pets than people? Maybe our pets give us permission to be emotional.

Edgar sighed and sat next to me. He put his arm over my shoulders and I leaned my head on his hard bicep. I'd taught Edgar math for a while, at the Marrion School, when he was a thin and quiet little boy. He learned quickly, went off to college, and returned to work as one of our security policy people. He'd grown into the man I expected, smart and kind and thoughtful. It made me proud.

We stared at the blood-stained Earth projected on the floor. Clouds swirled over the Caribbean: another hurricane festering over the hot waters. The storm would come north soon, and drive the sea farther still up onto the land. Cold, punishing rains would come to us up here in the Northeast soon after.

When I got myself under control, I told Edgar, “Humor an old woman who refuses to get a telepathy chip. Speak. Tell me what you know."

He nodded politely. Young people today usually hate talking, and are bad at it. But we demanded excellence in oral communications at the Marrion School. He started slowly. “All right.” He sat forward and put his hands between his knees. “Someone entered here around ten p.m. No forced entry. The keypad around back was used. I didn't like it that David had this whole place without cameras or biometrics, but he insisted on leaving some way for us—for Marrion people—to come and go without leaving a trail."

"So the person who killed him knew the entry code,” I said. “Someone betrayed him. One of us."

Edgar frowned. “You can't be sure who it is."

I tilted my head skeptically. “But we can start with the most likely suspects, can't we?” We were both thinking the same thing: the most likely suspect was my sister, Virginia.

"Tell me the rest,” I said.

Edgar pointed to the door. “David's dog was shot in the doorway, once in the head. David was over here, by the bay window. You know how he liked to think while staring out at the city. He turned toward the door, and was shot twice, in the chest. Ceramic bullets. Unusual caliber, and no trace metals on the bullets: the gun was ceramic also. That's an expensive, specialty weapon. Combined with what the coroner told us, we can be certain that this is a corporate assassin."

He got up suddenly and started pacing. He must have realized he looked very upset, because he forced himself to stop, his feet at the end of the outline of David's feet. You could tell he wished he could fling himself back in time to fight for the old man.

"The assassin died in a shoot-out with the cops, just a block from here. And you know why? He couldn't get to the subway fast enough. His ankle was broken. Ninety-eight years old, and David was still a tough bastard. David's lungs were probably already full of blood, but with two bullets in him he made it across the room, broke the assassin's ankle, and tripped the alarm on his way."

I reached out and took Edgar's hand. “This killing was meant to slow us down."

He nodded, fighting tears. “It will only speed us up."

"Good,” I said. “I'm tired of being hunted. I think it's time to be done with it. I'm going to collect my dog and then pay a visit to my sister. Right after you tell me about the coroner's report on the assassin."

Edgar thought for a moment, then touched my glasses. Photographs streamed across my visual field. Photographs of a ruined brain.

* * * *

During my seventh year at the Marrion School, when most of my classmates were twelve, they called us together to tell us the secret.

My sister Virginia was a year older than me, but they had waited to tell her. The teachers and counselors told my mother it was because of me, that it would be hard for Virginia to keep a secret from her younger sister. But that wasn't true. Virginia didn't tell me anything. The counselors at the school just didn't think Virginia was ready. I don't think they would have told her, ever, if they didn't know someone—me, most likely—would tell her eventually. And, with my mother insisting that Virginia be given a place in the school, they really had no choice. No one could deny my mother: Hippolyta Sumaran had suffered too much for the cause.

Virginia was near tears in the back of the class when they called us. All the other kids left, but I went to get her. She held a pair of scissors and next to her on the table lay a box covered with ruined heaps of construction paper. She was trying to make something, in the minutes we had left. In her lap lay a crumpled picture she'd picked for her inspiration: scrawny penguins on a rocky shore, lost without ice. She'd meant to make a diorama of that. And then she was supposed to make climate models to explain how things ended up like in the diorama. Mine had been done for a week: a diorama of a bleached coral reef, made out of white modeling clay. I was proud of it. My computer model showed ocean currents as little dark blue arrows turning in the pale aqua seas of a map of our hemisphere. It illustrated how changes in their flow altered the air currents also, so that the summer warmth now roasted the southern U.S. but no longer reached to England.

"Come on, Ginny,” I said. “We have to go. You can work on your project when you get back."

She waved at me as if she meant to slap me. Virginia was angry because our projects were due that day and she didn't have hers done. She wasn't even started.

"No one told me it was due.” She sniffed.

I pointed over her head. There was a big timeline on the wall, spotted with dates. At the end of the arrow was a big red PROJECTS DUE.

"The teacher only told us once, like a month ago,” she added.

I didn't see how that was a bad thing. It meant we had a whole month. But Virginia got really angry when I corrected her, so I said nothing and just grabbed her arm and pulled.

"Besides,” she said, “I don't care about the stupid ocean. Penguins are stupid."

Finally she came, sulking along behind me. We went to the little auditorium. We were last so we had to sit in the front row. Uncle Ressar was there, standing with folded arms, staring out at us. He was scary, even though he was really old, like sixty something. He looked at each of us in turn, as if he were sizing us up for a fight. Our teacher, Ms. Phoebe Gillet, went and stood next to him.

Someone closed the doors and all the kids fell silent.

"You have all been told by your parents that you're special,” Ms. Gillet said. “That's why you're here at the Marrion School. Because you're special. But there are many different ways to be special. What is the thing that makes you special?"

Then she told us: we'd been made to be different, not just born different. Someone had changed our genes so that we cared about the future more than other people did. That was very special. That made us the Marrion children.

"Being made is not unusual anymore,” Mr. Ressar said then. “Now many people have manufactured genes in them. But in all the world, no one has been made to be like you have been made to be. No one else even thinks to do it. We ask you to keep this a secret. But it's up to you. It's not a bad thing to be special like you are, but we think that if people knew about you, they would make it harder for you to do the things you hope to do. So if you keep this a secret—and only talk about it with your parents, or with older children here in the school—then no one will bother you, while you try to make the world a better place."

Back at the classroom, kids spoke in whispers, as if we were still in the auditorium. It was like after a funeral I once went to, where all the kids acted like the adults, serious and silent. The teacher asked us how we felt. Tommy spoke first and he said he felt proud. Then Karen raised her hand and in loud, clear speech she said she was going to keep the secret just like all the older kids had kept the secret before her. Karen could be annoying but still everyone nodded at that, agreeing. Everyone except Virginia. Our teacher pointed at my sister. Virginia still sat in the back, head down, lower lip thrust out, cutting blue construction paper to shreds.

"Virginia,” Ms. Gillett asked her, “how do you feel about what you learned today?"

"It didn't work,” Virginia said.

"What, Virginia? I didn't hear you, honey."

"I said it didn't work. For me. It didn't take. I'm not any different.” She cut a strip of paper and let the halves fall to the floor. “I don't care about the future. I don't care about any of this."

Over Edgar's strenuous objections, after denying his request to accompany me, I took a Hudson Line train north, up the river valley, to get to my home. When the train stopped in my village, I rented a car and parked it on the side of the street below the woods that abutted my vineyard. Then I headed up the hillside through the forest as the sky turned yellow and red with the sunset.

It was dark by the time I came to the bottom of the vineyard. Along the banks of the Hudson, fires started. It was the first day of autumn, and the people who lived in the valley performed, with a devotion that seemed ancient, a September ritual only two decades old: they bound dry stalks of corn into tall pyres; balanced on their pinnacles obese effigies made of corn stalks but dressed in scraps of discarded clothes, each meant to represent a president or prime minister or CEO of the past; then they put the whole heap to flame while dancing around the conflagration.

I've danced with them, in past years. The people looked beautiful in the soft golden light. Their hair smelled like smoke. Children laughed and stood so close to the flames that steam rose from their dew-damp clothes. But now I watched from a distance, climbing through the vineyards. There were no other lights in the valley, no electric lamps burning all night and bleaching the universe from the sky. The dark forests behind the fires were black hulks. The hilltops were dental outlines that ate into the bright haze of stars. The river was invisible but for the long reflections of the flames that wavered over its smooth surface.

My house was dimly lit. I entered from the back door. Juno came running, tail thumping the walls. A big black neo-shepherd, his head slammed into me and nearly knocked me over. His words streamed across my glasses. JANET JANET JANET JANET HOME JANET HOME.

"You scared me,” Steven said, coming into the den. Steven was a boy from the village who helped with the vines. He'd been housesitting. He pulled at his tatty T-shirt, spotted with holes, as if sorry to be caught so informally dressed. Then he thrust his big hands into the pockets of his jeans.

"Sorry, Steven. I didn't mean to surprise you. There's a bit of trouble. Frankly, I didn't trust calling you on the phone. I need you to get home as quickly as possible. Don't take the road. Walk down the trail to your house. Don't talk to anyone you don't know. If a stranger comes to your house, any stranger at all, don't open the door, and call the police. Just tell the police you're being harassed. I'm going to take Juno and go away a few days. But I'll call you."

He frowned. “Did someone threaten you? Should I call the police now?"

"I'll take care of the police. You go on now."

He hesitated, but then nodded and left.

I packed nothing. Instead, I went to the tool shed. Juno trailed along as I prepared for the possibility of a visitor. Then I waited, in the vines, and watched the last of the fires dim, the silhouettes of distant dancers blurring before the red embers. Midnight approached. Maybe no one would visit this night. Maybe I should just leave now.

Juno, asleep at my foot, jerked awake. He looked up the hill, through the vines, and gave a faint growl.

A footstep cracked a dry stick behind me. The assassin was coming down toward the first row of vines. I supposed he'd been through the house and was now expanding his search. Or he had infrared and had seen me waiting in the vine rows as he had approached the house.

I sighed. So begins a different autumn dance.

"That's close enough,” I called. He was just a silhouette, a dim outline in the field with stars behind his head. My height, perhaps heavy, with short hair.

He stopped.

MAN NOT AFRAID MAN DOESN'T SMELL AFRAID, Juno sent. MAYBE NICE MAN.

"He's here to kill us,” I whispered to Juno. “He's a special man. A strange man. He won't be afraid before he attacks."

BITE HIM BITE MAN streamed across my view. Juno gave a hint of another growl but then obeyed my order to be still and quiet.

"Ms. Reed?” A polite voice. He seemed comfortable with talking. He must have been told, of course, that I lacked a teep chip. “I'm looking for Ms. Janet Reed."

"Yes, of course you are.” I was next in line, in the hierarchy of the Marrion conspiracy. I'd been right to think I'd be next in line to be killed.

"Ms. Reed, sorry to come at this late hour, but I have a summons. I—"

"Stop right there. There's filament barbwire between us. Invisible in the dark. But it'll wrap you up like a spider's meal if you take another step."

He stopped. I could see the outline of his arms, and so infer where his hands were. His right hand was open, gesturing as if to plead with me. The left was stuffed deep in his pocket. “I don't think you understand, I just—"

"What is your name?"

"Excuse me?"

"Not a difficult question."

"Uh, Cal Sever."

"Ah,” I nodded in the dark. “Your masters have a grotesque sense of humor."

"Ma'am?"

I should not taunt him. The man I talked to didn't know he was an assassin. “Now,” I told him, “is when you tell me that you only want to talk with me."

"That's right, ma'am. I'm here representing several groups that would—"

"Wait. I agree to a dialogue. I'll tell you my story, if you tell me yours. Not a rushed conversation, either. A leisurely stroll together. I'm heading east, Mr. Sever. We'll talk again, on our way. So tell your masters. That's the cost of getting close to me: you have to listen, and you have to talk. You have to tell me what they want. I'm going to tell you what we want."

He hesitated, then took a step forward. He must have felt the filaments, because he backed away. “Ma'am, I think you've misunderstood."

"New York, Mr. Sever. Let's talk next in the city."

"Ma'am I think thaaa . . . ah . . . ah. . . .” His voice died away. I was waiting for this, for the man's language ability to retard into muteness. Fluidly, his left hand came from his coat, holding something, raising to aim at me. I squeezed my eyes shut hard and dropped to the ground, folding over Juno. With one hand I covered Juno's eyes, and with the other I pressed the button on my handheld. A huge boom sounded out from the house, followed by a second and third explosion.

Crow cannons. We fire them to scare away the birds that eat the Riesling grapes in the fall. The muzzle flash was blinding, the sound thunderous. If I was lucky, Sever would have reflexively looked at the cannons when the first went off, and so would have been staring straight at the next flashes. He should see nothing now but retinal burn, and hear nothing but the ringing of his ears. Crouching low, I ran to the left, the right, and then down the hill between vine rows. Juno kept up easily, tongue lolling. Nearly silent gunfire hissed behind us, fired aimlessly. Ceramic bullets ripped through the fading leaves of autumn vines, making a patter like rain.

* * * *

On the edge of the village, I picked up the electric car and Juno and I set off for Manhattan. Juno loved it: he sat in the front passenger seat, window down, eyes squinting in the wind. I don't think he understood that we were shot at by the man, though my fear had upset him. But that was over. Now he was thinking about New York. The future, and the past, did not trouble Juno much. Sometimes I envied him.

SEE DAVID? he sent to me.

"No, sorry, Juno,” I told him. “We can't see David."

YOU SMELL LIKE DAVID. NICE SMELL. SEE HERA SISTER HERA?

"No. We won't see Hera either."

The cool night air was damp and smelled of the forest. After an hour, the trees gave way and we got onto the highway, squeezing onto the single lane that remained, now that tram cars ran in the old passing lanes. Juno stretched out in the narrow back seat and went to sleep, only rising when we dropped the car at Times Square. I checked us into the Sheraton using the robotic kiosk; I didn't want to force any of the boys working late behind the counter to use speech. I splurged and got a suite, paying with a cash chip in the hopes it couldn't be tracked as easily as a credit number.

In the room Juno wrinkled his nose at the smell of cleaning solvents, and then went to the tall windows facing Times Square. I stripped to my underwear and climbed into the king-size bed. Juno stared outside, not much amused by the flashing lights of advertisements and the dancing holograms. He only got interested when the dog food commercial played every five minutes or so, a Godzilla-sized yorkie chasing food pellets across the sky.

MISS HOME. He sent. SEE DAVID? SEE HERA SISTER HERA NOW?

"Come get on the bed,” I told him. “Let's sleep a while."

GO FOR WALK?

"Soon,” I said.

CITY SMELLS FUN LOTS OF SMELLS ALL DIRTY SMELLS. He climbed on the bed, turning circles for a comfortable spot, his thin legs sinking awkwardly into the soft mattress. WATCH TV?

"Sure. I think they even have neo-dog TV here.” All squirrels all the time.

There was no remote; you were supposed to teep to the wall screens. Using my glasses I went through the laborious process of working the backup menus they leave on these systems for luddites like me.

The next morning we walked over to Grand Central. A guard stopped me just inside the station. He stared at me for a long time, then realized with exasperation that I didn't have a teep chip and he was transmitting to what he considered a deaf mute. “Ma'am,” he said slowly, struggling with his voice, “we don't allow normal dogs in the station."

"Juno is a neo-dog,” I said. “I just keep his telepathy chip transmissions private. They go to my glasses.” But I blinked through some user screens and sent a signal to Juno's teep chip, letting it broadcast wide-band for a moment.

MAN SMELLS FUNNY LIKE GIRL SOAP LIKE DONUTS, Juno sent to both of us.

I suppressed a smile. The guard frowned and waved us on.

We went downstairs to the cafeteria. I got us a heaping tray of food, including three sausages for Juno.

GOOD GOOD GOOD GOOD GOOD GOOD, he sent, nose twisting in the air, as he eyed them.

"We're on a trip,” I told him. “To see my sister Virginia. A little splurging is due. You can eat whatever you want. Just tell me."

He licked my hand, his tail wagging with dangerous vigor for this crowded station. LOVE JANET GOOD JANET BEST JANET BEST BEST SMELLS GOOD JANET ALWAYS BEST SMELL GOOD SMELL JANET.

We took a corner booth. I logged into my house computer and then called Edgar's house, expecting both or at least one of these actions to leak my location. Then we started to eat. A screen on the tiled wall before us showed that the hurricane had made landfall. Reporters stood leaning into the rain on some remnant scrap of Florida, screaming for their ridiculous mandatory hurricane shot. Four years in a row hurricane season had stretched into winter. They'd stopped calling them “freak weather events."

Juno turned his head, ears suddenly pricking high.

EDGAR SMELL EDGAR, he sent.

"Wow,” I said. Even with all the trains electric now, somehow the air in Grand Central still managed to reek of nothing but diesel and the hint of urine. I was amazed Juno could smell anything else. I didn't move my head, and in the small field of vision I had, I didn't see Edgar. Hopefully he was close.

"That's right,” I whispered. “But we're playing a game. Act like you don't see him, Okay? He's sneaking up on the man who came to the house yesterday."

HIDE AND SEEK HIDE AND SEEK.

"Just wait,” I said. “And tell me when you smell the other man."

BITE HIM.

"First, just tell me. Biting might have to wait a bit.” I gave Juno the second and third sausages. “Please chew,” I told him. But no: a few snapping gulps and they were gone.

SMELL HIM NOW, Juno sent after a minute. I scanned the room. It was full, families and men in business suits and students moving in every direction. A few neo-dogs, less disciplined than Juno, ran circles around their masters.

Then I saw the man. My house had captured a few security pictures yesterday, and I'd lifted them this morning from my house computer. He looked completely normal. A little chubby, average height, a receding hairline, probably in his late twenties. He walked toward me, across the room.

He took only two more steps before Edgar and one of Edgar's people slipped close to each of his sides. I saw Edgar's lips move.

"What's Edgar saying?” I whispered to Juno, whose rigidly erect ears aimed at the three men.

DON'T MOVE STAY CALM KEEP YOUR HANDS OUT OF YOUR POCKETS LET'S GO.

I watched them approach. The man looked confused and scared. He stopped before the booth.

"You're going to put your hands on the table, and sit, never taking your hands off the table,” Edgar told him. “I'm going to sit next to you. My friend is going to stand behind you. Please understand, we won't hesitate to shoot you. I'd enjoy shooting you, after what your people did to David Ressar. And it will not be an inconvenience for us to do so: it will not be hard to explain why we shot a man with an assassin's gun in his pocket. We both have licenses for concealed weapons. I bet you don't."

"I don't have a gun,” the man said.

Edgar frowned at this insulting pretense, and tapped the hard gun in the man's pocket with the barrel he pushed against his own coat pocket. It made a muffle clunk, metal on ceramic.

"Please,” I said, “Mr. Sever, sit."

He did as he was told. Edgar slipped next to him, and then he slipped his left hand into Sever's coat. Sever reflexively pulled away but when Edgar shook his head Sever sat back. Edgar pressed a small metal box against Sever's chest. “This is a signal jammer,” he said. “It will only keep your brain box there in your chest from getting any messages. Stay calm."

"What's going on?” he asked. “What do you want?"

SMELLS SCARED NOW SMELLS SCARED GOOD GLAD MAN SCARED THIS TIME NOW TIME, Juno sent. He stared, his dark eyes unwavering. The hint of a snarl on his long snout exposed his white canines.

"Mr. Sever,” I said. “Did you tell your masters that I want to talk?"

He didn't answer.

"Well. I'll assume they're listening to us now. I want to tell them that killing us won't help."

He looked at Edgar again, then at me. “I am only a courier, you understand. But I have a message: If you stop the program, you will be left alone."

I shook my head. “It's too late.” I looked at his collar, his chest, wondering where the wire likely was, foolishly wanting to talk directly into it. “It's too late. You could kill us all and the program would go forward. It's already done, really."

I sat back and reached for my bag. I took out the prints I'd made of photographs that Edgar had given me. “Mr. Sever, I want to show you something. Something for you, not for them. A dear friend of mine was killed last week. The man who shot him fought to the death. These are pictures of the assassin's autopsy."

I spread the pages on the table. The first photo showed a skull seen from the top, opened up. A big chunk of the parietal lobe was gone, the tissue flowering out where the policeman's bullet had exited. “This isn't my specialty,” I said. “I'm a mathematician, like my mother before me. But some friends helped me understand what we see here. This assassin had a commissurotomy."

"I don't understand.” Sever looked sideways again at Edgar. “Do you get this?” He was plotting his escape, keeping the conversation going, hoping to distract Edgar while looking for an opening. But Edgar was good: he didn't look at the photographs but kept his gaze fixed on Sever, right hand on the gun in his pocket, left hand holding the jammer over Sever's heart.

"New to me also,” I said. “But there's a bundle of nerves here, between the two hemispheres of the brain. The corpus callosum. It integrates the two hemispheres. On this man, it was cut. Also, there's another bundle below that, the anterior cingulate, that was also cut. Cut long before. The healing was complete; the tissue had retreated from long disuse.

"And there's another thing. Here.” I pointed at the side of the brain. “There is a fine network of nanowire mesh laid over much of the left side neocortex—only the motor, somatosensory, and some visual cortex is not covered. Now, this person had a brand name pacemaker, though he looked twenty-five. But it wasn't really a pacemaker. It had a radio in it, and it was wired up to this mesh on the left side neocortex. That mesh can generate a mild field that inhibits neural electrochemical signals. Basically, it can shut down most of the left side of his brain."

The man stared. “You think I had something to do with this?"

"Do you have a pacemaker, Mr. Sever?"

"Yes. But not . . .” His mouth hung open as he considered it.

"Each side of a neocortex is potentially independent. But there are some asymmetries. Language, for example, is usually only in the left, for most people. The two hemispheres, if separated, can learn and do things on their own, without the other half even knowing. In a way, someone with this surgery is now two people, only partly integrated."

I reached across the table and took his hands. I turned them over, and rubbed at the calluses at the base of the fingers of his right hand. “This assassin had the calluses of someone who was right handed, just as you have. But the weapon retrieved had only left hand fingerprints on it. The wiring in a human brain is contralateral: the right side of your brain controls the left side of your body, and sees what's to the left of your visual field. And vice versa. Do you understand?"

"No.” He looked around again, probably for his handler. He was getting more scared, perhaps a little desperate.

"I'm saying they trained the right neocortex of this guy to be an assassin. I don't think the left neocortex even knew. The right hand literally doesn't know what the left is doing. A metaphor for our civilization, don't you think?"

"I'd like to go now,” he said. He was starting to sweat.

"I suppose you believe you're a low-level security operative of some kind,” I told him. “But you're not. You're a very special product, Mr. Sever. You're an assassin who doesn't know he's an assassin, who can walk through biometric scanners without showing fear. You could even pass one of those quick-MRIs and show no aggressive brain activation."

He stared at me. His fingertips twitched on the table. He seemed to be struggling with what I told him. Finally, he whispered, “What do you want?"

"Not to be shot, of course. But also . . . I'm a person who believes that the symbolism matters. And, well, I was made too. Or rather, my grandparents were made. For a different purpose, of course. I'm a secret, just like you're a secret. So I think it would be . . . appropriate if we both came out into the light. Don't you? You probably have a handler here somewhere. He's trying to turn half of your brain off now, while we talk. We could help you, Mr. Sever. We could get you out of here. We could have this device removed. We could help you be a free man again. Would you choose that?"

His brow furrowed. He really seemed to be considering it. I held my breath. I longed to have him, to have some link that would let us direct the police to the people who had killed David Ressar. It was so rare that we received any justice in this world. But finally Sever shook his head. “Let me go."

I stood. Sever flinched, as if he'd started a movement but immediately stopped it. Edgar's hand under the table pressed his gun hard into the man's side. Sever's hands stayed on the table.

"All right,” I said. “We'll play it out. I'm going to leave now. My friends here are going to hold you until my train leaves. Then they're going to let you go. We two will talk again—if your handler doesn't kill you because of what you now know."

Juno growled once, the barest murmur. I locked eyes with Edgar and he nodded. I picked up the briefcase that he had set on the floor next to his seat, and then I headed for our train, Juno padding quietly beside me.

We took the Metro-North train to Stamford, Connecticut. A little girl sat across from us in the aisle, chocolate smeared on her face, and kept offering the wet gnawed end of a candy bar to Juno. Her mother stared glassy-eyed off in space, indifferent, either teeping someone far away, or maybe having a television program cast right into her occipital lobe. Either way, she sat oblivious.

TAKE CANDY GOOD CANDY PLEASE TAKE, Juno asked.

"No, Juno,” I said softly, “chocolate is not good for a dog.” I don't know where that old saw came from—that chocolate causes dogs to keel over with an exploded heart. But I did know Juno would likely puke in an hour if he ate the thing. I smiled at the little girl.

"I'm sorry, honey, but my dog Juno can't eat chocolate. Chocolate is bad for his tummy."

The girl frowned. She puzzled through my words, clearly unaccustomed to speech. Then she nodded and smiled. She set the candy bar on the filthy seat next to her mother, to free both hands so she could boost herself up. She managed to get onto the seat, but then had to figure out how to get the candy out from under her skirt without getting back down. She twisted, smearing chocolate on her clothes.

Juno looked at me dolefully.

"I just gave you three sausages,” I reminded him. “It'll be a wonder if that alone doesn't make you sick."

The train car was silent, though crowded. It would have been eerie, in my youth. The Metro-North trains were never silent then. People talked to each other, people shouted into phones, people listened to music and the tinny beats leaked from their headphones, some people sang or shouted. But now it was always quiet. Everyone had a teep chip. They talked, or called, or listened to music inside their skulls. Every person carried his own world everywhere with him.

The teep chips had completely transformed the global economy. There was no going back now. They were a permanent fixture of human life, of the human future. People like me, without a chip, were becoming like people living off the grid: oddball fringe types. Few would choose a life without the chips, because few could afford to do so. And no one, no tyrant, no religion, no employer, would have the power to demand that servants or subjects or workers not have the chips—a modern economy required them.

In Stamford we got off and changed platforms, and waited until a sleek high-speed Amtrak pulled up. I had two first class tickets, so this time Juno and I sat in plush seats in the back of a nearly empty car. A steward approached us, an old man. I spoke quickly, before he tried to teep me, and he smiled in relief and gladly took my spoken order for white wine. After he brought the glass he promised to let me know when we reached Providence. He petted Juno, who dropped his ears contentedly while being scratched. Then the steward left us to doze.

SEE SISTER YOUR SISTER? Juno sent.

"Yes."

He looked at me, thinking. NICE SISTER SMELL GOOD PLAY GOOD.

I shrugged. “I haven't seen her in years. Since our mother's funeral. We are not friends.” I feared, as soon as I said this, that Juno would not understand.

But in reply he just sent, SISTER BROTHER ALWAYS FRIEND GOOD FRIEND SMELL GOOD FRIEND.

He curled up and went to sleep, long chin on his heels. I took off my heavy computer glasses, glad to be free of them, put a hand on Juno's hot flank, and closed my eyes.

* * * *

Our mother had died in July, ten years before. The same cancer that had killed her mother before her. For the burial, we stood in a hot field near our grandfather's farm, and people from the Marrion School, people like us, said things about her contributions and the sacrifices she had made while bees drifted indifferently through the wildflowers. Afterward, I never could remember what they said, only the dirt falling down on the plain pine box she'd requested for a casket, and the ringing of blue jays at the field's edge. No one cried as much as our father, Allen Reed, who had never married her—"I wanted to have his babies,” our mother had told us, when we asked as children why our father didn't live with us, “not to have his life."

The reception sprawled around Allen's house. People talked in loud voices and crowded into every room, but Allen looked fretfully out the back windows at where Virginia stood in the grass of his back yard, getting drunk alone.

"I'll check on her,” I told him.

"I hate these things,” she said, by way of explanation as I approached, swinging a bottle of white wine in her hand, not even maintaining the pretense of holding a glass in the other. She was barefoot. She lifted the bottle and took a swig, aiming to shock me. She looked good, like a professional woman from the city: thick hair cut expertly, clear shine on her short nails, a slightly severe suit but with a provocatively short skirt. Only the sore red of her eyes gave away some hint of vulnerability. “I swore I'd never come to another."

"You were thinking of avoiding your mother's funeral?” I asked.

"Starting right in, Jan? You know I meant these gatherings of people from the Marrion School. These cabals of conspirators."

"This is our father's home,” I said softly.

"God, I'd almost forgotten the self-righteous way you could talk. As if all this were reasonable."

"It's a funeral, Ginny. It's not reasonable or unreasonable."

"It's not a funeral. It's a business meeting.” She turned to face the house. “They're all in there, scheming. I saw that creepy David Ressar in the living room, brooding over his little army. He was on the news last week. That ‘non-partisan, non-party political party’ of his has fifty million members, they said. He's trying to rule the world, that mean old bastard. And what do you do for them? What's your big role in this criminal enterprise?"

I answered her calmly. “I'm good at cryptography."

"You don't even see how sick this is."

"You think it's better to dedicate your life to selling junk food and shoes made in sweat shops?” I had meant to just let her vent, but suddenly I found myself reverting to my role as ridiculously earnest critic. Virginia worked for an advertising agency, jealously proud of its big clients in the restaurant and sportswear industries.

She laughed at me. “See? You think my job is worse. You can't even tell how perverse this little cult of yours is, like that school."

I frowned. “What's wrong with the Marrion School? I loved that school. All of us did."

"Not all of us, Jan. Not all of us."

"Mom thought it was good."

"Mom hated all this,” Virginia said, again waving the bottle at the house, so that it splashed wine over her hand. “She thought maybe the Marrion School was a good school, that's all. For the education. She didn't even know about the sick psych tests."

"There were no sick tests. What are you talking about?"

"The goddamn chocolate bars."

I strained my memory, and then recalled the kindergarten exercises we did sometimes. In a conference with a teacher, a few at a time, they gave each of us a candy bar, set on a clean white plate, unwrapped, the naked chocolate easy to smell. “You can have this now,” the teacher explained, “or you can wait and not eat it until I come back, and then I'll give you another chocolate bar and you can have two."

I waited for the second bar. All the children in our school did. Except Ginny. She nibbled on the edges of her chocolate bar, hoping to cheat the test by eating too little for any adult to notice, but she kept eating around the edge until nothing was left but some smears on the plate. She'd cried when she didn't get a second bar.

"That?” I almost laughed at her. “You remember that? That's an old test that didn't come from the Marrion School. It's a standard psychological test."

"Yeah, well, I flunked,” Virginia spat. “But they kept making me take it. Over and over. I kept flunking but they wouldn't stop making me take it."

I shrugged. “They were hoping you could learn."

"Learn what?"

I didn't reply. She knew the answer.

Virginia turned and walked farther down the lawn, swinging the bottle. I followed only a few steps. “All of you are going to pay for the things you've done,” she said. “Someday. I look forward to seeing it."

Then I said to her the cruelest thing that I had ever said. “Well, you flunked again, Virginia. You just proved that even at your own mother's funeral, you can only think of yourself."

I went inside. I did not see her again.

* * * *

In Providence the old steward woke me. I thanked him and Juno and I jumped down to the terminal. We took a taxi to the waterfront, and boarded the seabus, a big electric ferry that would slip up the side of what remained of Cape Cod, making a few stops on the way to Provincetown.

Juno liked the sea. He paced the railing, nails clicking on the steel deck, his mouth open in a smile of contentment for the wind. I turned my glasses back onto wide network—I'd allowed them only local network transmissions before this—and then made some calls. I called the house and felt relief when I got Steven and learned he was fine. I called Edgar and told him where I was. And then I left my tags in the ether, open for calls. I was announcing, to anyone astute enough to know how to track me, where I was, and where I was going.

When we came to the huge floating dock in Chatham, the bus slowed, bounced off the dock, and then finally stopped, pressed up against it. Juno and I got off alone, though a few people got onto the ship. I waited a while, feet sinking into the soft plastic cubes that made up the dock, listening to the lapping water and wondering if a water taxi would come. Finally I used my glasses to locate a service and then ordered a taxi. After a while a small electric boat driven by a sullen boy with red hair circled the dock, as if deciding whether we were worth the stop, and then pulled up.

Extra for the dog, his teep chip sent, using protocols that my glasses could translate.

"That's fine,” I said aloud. Juno leapt into the boat, making it rock, and I climbed in uneasily. I told the boy the address, and he seemed to puzzle over the sound a minute, but finally pulled away.

Chatham had become the Venice of a sunken Cape Cod. White houses tottered on fat pilings over sand bars that, a generation ago, had been far inshore but that now were drowned at high tide. Boats rose and fell with floating docks, providing the only reliable transportation. A strange mix of people lived out here. Many old timers, from fishing families or families that had otherwise spent a generation or two on the Cape before it mostly disappeared, and considered the sea here their birthright. A few obscenely wealthy types who saw some kind of cachet in the authenticity of what remained of the Cape. And a few like Virginia, who loved the sea and managed to buy a little house in amongst the other folks.

I'd never been to Virginia's new home, of course, but we had managed to find the address. The boy steered the taxi through a system of buoys colored red and blue and other primary colors, floating in what seemed to be a grid pattern in the high tide. They marked out something like water avenues. Juno went and stood at the boy's side, almost pressing his head to the boy's hip, and I stiffened, expecting a complaint. But the young man only petted Juno a little, before returning both hands to the wheel.

We fishtailed around corners, dragging a wake and plowing close to many of the buoys. Juno closed his eyes against the wind, tongue hanging out, loving all of it.

Finally we turned into what I considered a narrow water alley, behind a long row of small houses standing on quads of steel-banded concrete pilings. The boy slowed and turned, expertly tapping the boat against the dock. Juno bounded onto the platform. I paid the boy, tightened my grip on the briefcase that Edgar had given me, and then carefully stepped onto the squishy plastic cubes. Without a word, the water taxi backed up, churning white foam, and then drove away.

When I looked up, Virginia stood there, at the top of a white ladder that led up to the balcony of her home. She held a glass of wine. Her hair had gone gray, and she'd gained a lot of weight. Juno eyed her curiously, uncertain about the obvious aggression in her stance.

"Hello, Virginia,” I said.

She stared a while longer, and then threw up her hands. “You don't have a teep chip. You were engineered specifically to care only about the future and instead you're a backwards luddite. We have to actually speak now. What a pain. You know, I've really come to like it that with the chip I can drink and talk at the same time."

I shrugged.

"I already know,” Virginia added.

The tide was high, and only two rungs of the ladder showed. I climbed up, and Juno jumped the distance after me. My shoes clacked on the hard composite boards of the deck.

Virginia sized me up. She did not seemed pleased by what she saw.

"I said I already know that Ressar is dead. You didn't have to come out here."

"I wanted to talk,” I said, “in person. You always said I had a penchant for drama."

DOESN'T SMELL LIKE YOU, Juno sent. Then he walked off, following the deck around the house, curious about the view and the smell of the sea.

Virginia looked after Juno. “I didn't picture you as the kind to get one of those things."

"His name is Juno.” I considered telling her that getting Juno hadn't been my idea, that the dog had been a gift from a concerned David Ressar, who thought I needed company and another pair of ears to listen for danger, when I spent my summers at the vineyard. But I decided against it. I would not apologize for Juno, even if I used to complain that I opposed the neo-dogs trade. I added, “He's disappointed that you are indifferent to him."

"He thinks he's people,” she sneered.

"He didn't ask to be what he is,” I whispered. I didn't add that I love him. I hadn't seen Virginia in years, and immediately the old pattern emerged: she put me on guard, forced me to withdraw my feelings carefully.

"And you can't see the irony of that?"

I shrugged.

"So,” she said. “I'm long done with the Marrion School, with conspiracies, with all of you. I don't want to hear about any of it."

When I didn't answer, she sighed. She waved at two plastic deck chairs. A little table sat between them, a fat pair of binoculars resting on their lens caps. “Sit. I'll get you some wine."

"Can you spare a bowl of water for Juno?” I asked.

When she came back I set the glass at my feet and pulled the briefcase onto my lap. “David Ressar was killed by a very special, very expensive assassin. It had to be corporate. I've come to tell you why they want to kill us."

"Us?"

"Others are in danger."

Juno walked by. He went to the water bowl and slopped very noisily.

"Charming,” Virginia said, lifting an eyebrow at the noise. Juno looked up at her with unfathomable brown eyes and stared a long while, water dripping from the hairs under his chin. She tried to feign indifference but the calm penetration of his stare made her shift uneasily. She frowned and looked away. Juno padded silently to the corner of the deck and sat, staring out at the sea.

"You should know why they want us dead,” I said.

"God, do you really think I don't know that, Jan? They want to kill you for the same reason anyone would if they knew the things you've done. Destroying the oil. Selectively curing diseases. Starting a political party. Infiltrating governments. How many people died because of the chaos you've caused?"

"Hard to say. But I think in the end we made the world a better place.” I gestured at the sea below her house. “Think of how many would have died if the sea were even higher."

"This is why I left. You can't see how evil you all are."

"Virginia, I doubt that these people who killed David are sentimentalists. Or avenging past wrongs. They killed David because they want to stop what we're doing next."

"Good,” Virginia said spitefully. “Maybe they'll succeed."

I opened the briefcase. Inside, neatly packed in cut foam, lay two boxes and a data stick. “This is what they want to stop."

"Wait,” Virginia said. “Is this another conspiracy?"

"That's not the best way to describe it."

"Will people die?"

"Yes. Surely."

"Then I don't want to know."

"I'm going to insist, Virginia."

"You can't. I can go inside, lock the door, call the police, and tell them you're a trespasser."

"We know that you gave them David Ressar's door codes."

I didn't know, really. She was just the most likely source. And we'd checked: she'd called Karen, from our class at the school, two months before, and asked for the codes, claiming she intended to visit David.

Virginia stared at me, mouth open. “How dare you! How dare you even . . ."

That's when I knew. She always overdid her false indignation.

"I assume you bought this house with what they paid you. Well, a good man is dead. You will hear me out, whether you like it or not. That's the price of getting rid of me."

She was silent a long time. Finally, I lifted the first box, a small plastic cube with electrical outlet prongs on one face. “This is a telepathy chip router. For home use. Or anywhere use. Just plug it in and leave it alone. It communicates to other such routers, and to teep chips, anywhere within range, using megabit encryption to create a totally secure peer-to-peer network. No one can break that encryption, no one can tell who is sending what messages to the router, or where the message is going, or what's in the message. We have some of these routers that run on solar power too. You can just set those anywhere they'll get sun."

I tapped the other box, a clear crystal box. Inside sat a tiny square of etched silicon. “This is the next generation of teep chip. The router will work with any teep chip, but these chips include sound and visual transmission abilities, lifting pictures directly from occipital cortex, sound direct from the inner ear. And these chips have a terabyte of on-board memory, to store images and thoughts and sounds for later transmission. You can share with other people what you saw or heard yesterday, or last year. And this,” I tapped the data stick, “contains a special, now open, peer-to-peer encryption protocol for the teep networks."

"Why should I care?” Virginia asked. We were back into our old roles, the scolding little sister, the impatient and aggressively indifferent older sister.

"We are manufacturing these, and we aim to flood the market with them, selling at cost, giving away the plans and the manufacturing instructions. With these, teep networks can be set up, which are absolutely private. Anyone can talk to anyone, any place, in secrecy. Anonymously or not. Imagine now that a president, a general, a CEO, anyone having a meeting, cannot be sure that what is said is not being transmitted, either then or later. And if it is shared, they cannot confirm who leaked it. Imagine a dictator trying to rule, when every servant has the power to transmit his plans, and cannot be stopped, cannot be caught. Imagine sending an army out to kill people, when any soldier in that army can leak that they're coming. Imagine the criminals on Wall Street, passing secrets, when anyone in the chain might just pass on all their names and secrets to the press with no more effort than a passing thought meant to appease a transient pang of guilt. We are going to end secrecy, by giving everyone the power of secrecy. That's why they want to kill us, Virginia."

She laughed, bitter and without mirth. Lazily, Juno turned and looked at her. He was starting to sulk. He grew impatient with me talking to people who weren't kind to us. “You don't see the irony in this? Your grand conspiracy now claiming to end all conspiracies? It won't work."

I smiled sadly. “Lately I've been seeing signs in everything. Metaphors. Maybe you're seeing irony in everything."

Virginia stood. “Go. I don't care about this stuff. Just go."

I packed and closed the case and set it on the deck. “There are other assassins."

"Surely not,” Virginia said. “If they're corporate, like you say, they'll turn their tails if they've already risked being caught."

"These assassins are special. They're engineered. They don't know who they are. And that makes them . . . disposable."

Virginia turned to me. Her eyes grew wide, this time with genuine fear. “You're leading them here. That's why you came here! Go! Now!"

"Too late.” I touched my glasses. “I've been recording everything I've done for the last few days. I transmitted it all this morning, and then went live. I've transmitted this conversation. It's gone to our supporters, all the people in our party, in our charities, our NGOs. And to people in the press. The Marrion conspiracy is over. No more secrets, Virginia. And that includes the secret that you betrayed David."

Virginia ran into the house. She came out a few minutes later, a purse in her hand. She threw it down onto the dock. “I don't ever want to see you again,” she said. She climbed down, took two steps and the leapt deftly into her boat. When her boat pulled away, churning water as she gunned the electric engine, Juno came to my side.

NOT NICE TO US, he sent.

"No,” I said. “To tell you the truth, she never has been nice. And you know what? I don't think it was the way she was born. I think it's just what she decided to be."

He licked my hand sympathetically. Then he sent, HUNGRY.

"I'll see what's inside, in a few minutes.” I lifted the binoculars from the table and removed their lens caps. I pushed my glasses onto my forehead and aimed the binoculars south toward Long Island Sound. That's the way a boat from Providence would need to come. The horizon there had turned dark, just in the short while I'd been talking to Virginia. It wouldn't be long till the stormfront of the expended hurricane made it here, bringing wind and heavy downpours. Before the dark clouds, a boat cut a white wake. I was impressed to see black diesel smoke rising from it. But of course: nothing was faster, on short notice, than an old diesel boat. It made for a nice metaphor, coming to get us with some of the last of the oil. Or was that an irony?

I stood and walked to the other corner of the deck. Through two houses across the channel I could see a sliver of the Atlantic. Boats from Provincetown would have to come from there. Small gleaming triangles crowded the horizon. I raised the binoculars, looking at the sailboats, their blue photovoltaic sails bowing in the wind. All of them sped towards us. We had a lot of friends in Provincetown. Some of those boats just might be tacking on their way round the Cape. But some might be coming here, having seen my account and knowing now where I was. Some just might be sailed by friends. Those sailboats were closer, but they moved more slowly.

It was a race now. To see which judgment arrived here first, the old world or the new one.

I looked down at Juno. “Let's find you something to eat. A feast. And I'll get some more wine for myself. We'll look at the sea a while, huh?"

SEA SMELLS GOOD, he sent.

"It does. We'll just enjoy ourselves. I don't do that often enough. We'll just enjoy the moment, and see what comes of it."

* * * *

(EDITOR'S NOTE: “Ecce Signum” is a sequel to “Amor Vincit Omnia" [April 2008] and “Amabit Sapiens" [September 2009].)

Copyright (C) 2012 Craig DeLancey

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Department: THE ALTERNATE VIEW: THE CHINK IN EINSTEIN'S ARMOR by Jeffery D. Kooistra

Up until September of 2011, April would have been the perfect month to write an April Fool's Day column about faster-than-light neutrinos, or faster-than-light anything for that matter. But faster-than-light particles are now serious scientific business.

You readers know as well as I do that, despite the rampant use of FTL drives supported by plausible-sounding, double-talk science in even hard science fiction, it has been assumed to be an immutable fact of life, armored by Einstein, that nothing can go faster than light. To seriously suggest otherwise has always been greeted with hoots of derision from physicists and educated laymen, if the claim was even noted at all. Granted, a host of FTL effects are in the domain of acceptable science, things involving the subtleties of phase vs. group velocity, Cerenkov radiation, and quantum entanglement. But what I'm talking about is what every SF reader is thinking: FTL as in a bullet, or a spaceship, or a human getting from point A to point B in less time than it would take a beam of light, in vacuum, to make the trip.

Since I'm writing this in October, and the news broke just a few weeks ago, I have no idea what the story will look like when you read this. A survey of the blogosphere finds some people saying, essentially: “Einstein said it can't be done, not without infinite energy to do it. And even then, you'd go back in time and mess up the space-time continuum and wreck causality. Everyone knows that!” Others are a bit more optimistic and nuanced in their responses, and with good reason. It was the guys at CERN who up and measured the FTL neutrinos, not some mad scientist in his basement.

And they did it well enough to have stymied the usual heckling and derision, at least for the time being.

The paper is called “Measurement of the neutrino velocity with the OPERA detector in the CNGS beam,” and it has over 150 coauthors. “OPERA” stands for “Oscillation Project with Emulsion-tRacking Apparatus.” The actual purpose of the experiment was to produce an assortment of neutrinos and watch for them to oscillate from one flavor into another (muon neutrinos into tau neutrinos). However, the nature of the experiment was such that the set-up was perfect for measuring the velocity of the neutrinos as well.

And when they did that, as carefully as they absolutely could, they found that the neutrinos were moving faster than light.

If you think about it, and if the result turns out to be right, the OPERA experiment is the model “archetypical science fiction serendipitous huge breakthrough.” Prior to this, the Manhattan Project was the paradigm for decades; a team of the best and brightest scientists is brought together in a crash program for the sole purpose of developing the atomic bomb. But in that case, those involved were fairly confident that what they sought could, in fact, be built. I used this trope in my own Dykstra's War when a team was assembled to reverse-engineer an alien FTL drive.

OPERA is just a bit different. In this case, a team of scientists put together an experiment to further explore the domain of known science. They used the biggest accelerator on the planet and the highest technology available to probe the secrets of the neutrino. But along the way, one of the things they found was entirely unexpected and would, if verified, shake the very foundations of physics in a way not seen since the days of Michelson and Morley (which very much sounds like the teaser for a hard SF novel).

I strongly urge each of you to read the original paper, which is available here: [ arxiv.org/ftp/arxiv/papers/1109/1109.4897. pdf] For a particle physics paper, it is remarkably accessible even to the layman, and the typical Analog reader shouldn't have much trouble understanding it, even if a few technical terms and abbreviations remain mysterious.

Very briefly, this is how the experiment was performed. Near-light-velocity protons from the accelerator at CERN were directed into “a 2-meter-long graphite neutrino production target.” This produced charged mesons, which “decay in flight into neutrinos in a 1,000-meter-long vacuum tunnel.” The neutrinos then flew through the Earth for about 730 kilometers to the OPERA detector and the arrival time was noted. The experimenters didn't follow individual neutrinos, of course. Rather, they noted the arrival time of a brief burst of neutrinos.

Bear in mind that this was not some kind of drag race between photons and neutrinos, where they raced side by side and the neutrinos won. It was more like a time trial for the neutrinos. As with any such trial, be it top fuel dragsters or subnuclear particles, accurate timing relies on knowing precisely where the starting point is as well as the finish line. You also need to know very precisely when the timing started and exactly when it ended.

For the OPERA experiment, the starting point and time were easy to determine; the starting point is the target and the time is that instant when the proton beam slammed into it. That time is known to within a fraction of a nanosecond. The position of the target is known to within a few centimeters. The team took great pains to ensure that the position of the detector is known just as precisely, as well as the arrival time of the neutrinos. Given this data, all that needed to be done was to subtract the start time from the end time and shazam—they showed the neutrinos arrived about 20 nanoseconds faster than a photon of light would have.

Of course, even if without derision, most scientists the world over assume there is some kind of systemic error involved in the measurements. Even the scientists from CERN are skeptical that the neutrinos are really moving faster than light, even though that's what they measured, and even though they've so far failed to find where it is that the experiment might have gone wrong.

I also am skeptical that this measurement will stand, even though I'm in the camp that actually expects FTL phenomena like this to eventually start showing up in experiments. The Global Positioning System, which is what was used for accurate positioning and timing, is a complicated and finely tuned instrument. Using it to determine both exact locations and clock synchronization requires incredible attention to the subtleties of the GPS itself. Regardless of whether or not the FTL finding survives scrutiny, reexamining it will ensure that any subtle wrinkles still remaining in the proper use of the GPS will be ironed out.

But suppose the results do stand up to review and we're forced to conclude that the neutrinos did, in fact, arrive faster than light. Then the question becomes whether or not neutrinos are actual tachyons, or if they got some sort of FTL “boost,” or jumped through hyperspace or something like that. Classical tachyons have been written about in the pages of this magazine for over forty years, both in fact and fiction. They are particles that have imaginary mass and always travel faster than light. The hyperspace idea is simple enough—somehow during the impact the neutrinos jumped through a higher dimension and moved FTL prior to reentering our space and resuming travel at just under c. This would get them to the target early, but they wouldn't be actual tachyons.

Since I favor an aether-consistent hypothesis, I'm partial to the boost idea. Recast in modern language, I think this idea may carry some weight among conventional physicists now that we know the “quark-gluon plasma” is actually a quark-gluon superfluid. I think that, upon impact, the spacetime superfluid itself deforms. The little bit of spacetime that the neutrinos are emerging from is expanding and moving with respect to the rest frame. It's something akin to “micro-inflation"—a short period of FTL expansion that rapidly diminishes.

Consider a prosaic analog of this effect.

The speed of sound in dry air (at 20 degrees Celsius) is about 343 meters per second. Suppose a firecracker is set off a mile away and you have some apparatus that starts timing at the flash and stops when the bang arrives. You can easily measure the speed of sound this way and get close to the expectation value. However, if you try this again from farther away with a nuclear explosion as the sound source, the sound will consistently arrive sooner than expected. What also is strange is that, if you are say 15 miles away from the explosion, and your associate is 20 miles away with a similar setup, and you compare notes to calculate the speed of sound over that five additional miles, you will find it was the expected value.

How does this work?

With anything as violent as a nuclear explosion, you must bear in mind that the bang you're timing started out from a hypersonic blast front. The source is initially moving far faster than sound and it takes a while before the sound wave decouples from the blast wave. So if you start timing the instant you see the light from the explosion, you will find that the sound is arriving sooner than you calculated it should. By the time the sound wave is 15 miles out, it's moving at the normal speed. In short, the sound wave gets an initial high-speed kick in the butt.

The implications of this are clear. Put another OPERA detector twice as far away, and if the neutrinos show up 20 nanoseconds early at both of them, then we know they're not tachyons.

Some scientists have complained that the FTL result was made public too soon. I find this position to be both timid and foolish. CERN has the biggest and best accelerator facility on Earth, staffed with some of the best physicists in the world. They have already done all they can to find some kind of mistake, yet still they measured neutrinos moving faster than light. If it turns out that there is a mistake and their measurement is invalid, we will find out sooner by letting everyone in the world mull it over, rather than by having the guys who've already looked it all over look it all over again. If the finding holds up, then the sooner everyone knows about it the sooner we can start rewriting the textbooks.

Over ten years ago I predicted in an Alternate View ("Five Predictions for Century 21,” July/August 2000) that “(f)aster-than-light travel will not only be recognized as possible, but recognized as feasible and within reach of twenty-first-century science.” Since there is no limit to the speed at which “aether can move through aether” I expected that sooner or later this fact would begin to show up in our experiments, whether we were looking for it or not. It's too early to know if the OPERA experiment is the first of these. It may be, it may not. But I sincerely hope we've finally found that chink in Einstein's armor.

One big enough to drive a starship through.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Probability Zero: TO SERVE ALIENS (YES, IT'S A COOKBOOK) by Eric James Stone

APPETIZER

Deviled Berundi Slug Eggs

Ingredients:

1 cluster of Berundi slug eggs (thawed)

2 tablespoons mayonnaise

1 teaspoon sugar

1 teaspoon Berundi slug urine (melted)

1 teaspoon mustard

1/2 teaspoon salt

Paprika

Directions:

Approach the Berundi slug nest at least thirty-six hours after local sundown, to ensure all local wildlife is in hibernation. Carefully raise the brooding Berundi slug from the nest and remove a cluster of 6-8 eggs from its underbelly. Store them in a padded container, as you don't want them shattering before they thaw.

Near the nest, you should find frozen Berundi slug urine (brown crystals with about a 10% concentration of acetic acid). Scoop up enough for at least a teaspoon of liquid.

Allow the eggs and urine to thaw/melt at room temperature. (Using too much heat will ruin the flavor.)

Slice each egg in half and remove the blue pit from the clear of the egg. Crack the shell of the pit and scoop out the yolk, which should be aqua in color and gelatinous in texture. (Warning: If the yolk is red, discard all eggs and set the kitchen to give itself a Level IV Decontamination, then go to MedLab and take a generic anti-toxin nanocap.)

In a small bowl, mash the yolks with a fork. Add the mayonnaise, sugar, urine, mustard, and salt; mix well. Stuff the mixture into the egg clears. Sprinkle with paprika to taste. Refrigerate until serving.

Diners should be advised that consumption of Deviled Berundi Slug Eggs does not violate Consolidated Federation laws regarding mind-altering substances, but will produce a mild euphoria.

* * * *

ENTREE

Berundi Cucumber Cordon Bleu

Ingredients:

1 skinless, de-spiked Berundi cucumber

1/4 teaspoon salt

1/8 teaspoon ground black pepper

6 slices Berundi tiger larva

4 slices cooked imported Earth pig ham

1/2 cup seasoned bread crumbs

Directions:

During daylight hours, use a stunner to shoot down a Berundi cucumber. (Take extra care that its trajectory will not bring it down on top of you, as with enough momentum the spikes can pierce an envirosuit.) Finding a cucumber at night will do you no good, as hibernation ruins the flavor. Refrigerate at least 12 hours in a sealed metal container, after which the spikes will be loose enough to be plucked.

Approach a Berundi tiger at least thirty-six hours after local sundown, to ensure all local wildlife is in hibernation. Pluck a larva from behind one of its ears.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C). Coat a 7x11 inch baking dish with nonstick cooking spray.

Slice cucumber into quarters. Pound to 1/4 inch thickness.

Cut off the ends of the larva and thinly slice the rest. Keep the slices separated by at least an inch or they will try to rejoin.

Sprinkle each piece of cucumber on both sides with salt and pepper. Place 1 larva slice and 1 ham slice on top of each cucumber piece. Roll up each piece, and secure with a toothpick. Place in baking dish, and sprinkle cucumber evenly with bread crumbs.

Bake for 30 to 35 minutes, or until cucumber is no longer green. Remove from oven, and place 1/2 larva slice on top of each piece. Return to oven for 3 to 5 minutes, or until larva has melted. Remove toothpicks and serve immediately.

Diners should be advised that consumption of Berundi Cucumber Cordon Bleu does not violate Consolidated Federation laws regarding mind-altering substances, but they should feel relaxed and uninhibited after eating.

* * * *

DESSERT

Berundi Elephant Mousse

Ingredients:

1 Berundi elephant dropping

Whipped Earth cow's cream

Directions:

The Berundi elephant is classified as sentient, so eating them is against Consolidated Federation law. However, eating their dung is not prohibited, and local elephants will provide all the droppings needed.

Thaw one Berundi elephant dropping in the microwave.

Blend dropping at high speed until it is smooth and a consistent orange color.

Pour into individual serving dishes and chill for at least 15 minutes.

Top with whipped cream just before serving.

After eating, wait for hypnoparalysis to affect diners. Generic anti-toxin nanocaps will be useless, and no specific anti-toxin nanocap exists.

Implant the suggestion that after the drug wears off and they return home, they recommend the cuisine on Berundi to all highly placed and influential humans.

Explain that the Berundi elephants will make wise and benevolent rulers, but that they cannot extend their leadership to the Consolidated Federation until enough humans are ready to serve them.

Copyright (C) 2012 Eric James Stone

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Short Story: YOU SAY YOU WANT A REVOLUTION by Jerry Oltion

It's so easy to know what's right for other people. . . .

I was reading the news from the Sol System when Hakam VanDerWendt, the fishmonger from Lesser Orly, set his morning porridge down opposite mine in the starship's grand dining hall and took a seat. “Have you heard the latest?” he asked excitedly.

"I'm reading it right now,” I replied, neither expecting him to get the hint, nor really caring. Distraction is the sole pleasure on a long journey, and I was happy enough to have it delivered in person if that was the form it took.

"Ceres has joined the revolution,” he said.

I had been reading about Mars, which had lost one of its three skystalks to sabotage. “Ceres?” I asked. “Are you sure?"

"As sure as one can be with a commercial media feed,” he replied. “They say fighting has broken out in Piazzi, and is spreading around the Rim."

I looked up and past him to the starry deep. Between us and infinity, several other diners read their morning news or conversed quietly with companions. A lone Hronan near the window nodded its reptilian head to me, tacit admission that it had overheard VanDerWendt's news. Or perhaps it was confirming it. I shuddered a bit at the sight of the creature, its ochre scales and toothy visage like a fever dream among the familiar accoutrements of a passenger liner cafeteria. I hoped it hadn't noticed my reaction, or if it had, had attributed it to the news my breakfast companion had delivered.

Ceres is the largest of Sol's asteroids. It apparently rotated faster when it condensed from the primordial cloud than when humanity thawed it out to terraform it, for it is thicker at the waist than along its axis. Consequently, it has two great oceans that cover the poles. The single ring-shaped continent that encircles its equator is called the Rim, and it's no wonder a fishmonger would be concerned with political instability there. Outside of Earth, the crenellated Rim presents the longest stretch of coastline in the Sol system. VanDerWendt had hoped to start a hatchery there with one or another piscine delicacy from his homeworld, or failing that at least franchise the rights for said delicacy to an existing operation.

Ceres. It was hard to believe. “Ceres is governed by a hereditary monarchy,” I said. As I spoke, my newspad flickered next to my empty bowl, delivering a photo of Queen Alinn the Fourth, a comely woman of perhaps a hundred and thirty. I ignored the rest of the data that filled the page, already familiar with the political situation there. “The populace seems perfectly happy to leave the governance to a royal family, and the family seems content to govern benevolently. It has persisted thus for centuries, if not millennia. What could they conceivably rebel against?"

"Taxation,” said VanDerWendt. “The Libertines have convinced the populace that they're being overtaxed.” He laughed, and dug into his porridge.

"You seem more cavalier about this than I would expect,” I said. “A revolution is a poor time to start a new business."

"You're joking. At the right moment, I can buy the entire coastline."

"And lose it to counterrevolutionaries in the next,” I pointed out.

"That would make it the wrong moment, then, wouldn't it?"

I laughed softly. “Assuredly so. How, pray, do you intend to know when the correct moment is at hand?"

"Intuition,” he replied. “And a good look at where the money is coming from. When the revolution starts costing the rich, it will stop."

"Indeed,” I agreed. Wars undoubtedly cost money, and it stood to reason that one could predict which way a conflict would resolve itself if one could examine the coffers of the combatants. This was entirely theoretical, of course. I had never actually witnessed a revolution, nor had most of humanity. We were all watching Sol system carefully, no doubt each for our own reasons.

"You and I should share intelligence,” I said, though Ceres was not my primary target. I had boarded our starship with a briefcase full of credit that I hoped to exchange for antiquities when conditions became harsh enough for their owners to part with them. Most of my quarry would be on Old Earth itself, or Mars.

I had no intention of actually staying on any of the planets or habitats in revolution. Rather, I would visit them as conditions permitted, sweeping through behind the revolutionaries and ahead of the inevitable “peacekeeping” forces that would do the real damage. I would make my home base on one of the stable worlds. I had planned for that world to be Ceres.

A new voice said from behind VanDerWendt, “You look like you've swallowed a bad sausage. Should I get the porridge instead?"

I looked up to see Daden Ernu, the journalist from Rignan. She carried a plate of eggs and links.

"It's the news from our destination you should avoid,” I told her.

So of course VanDerWendt immediately said, “Ceres has joined the revolution."

Ernu sat at the end of the table, facing both of us over her breakfast. “You'd think planets as separate as Sol system's would keep their own politics,” she said. “Why should Mars's problem spread to Ceres? Or even Earth?"

VanDerWendt laughed, but it was an unhappy laugh. “It's a single economy, that's why. We'll be lucky if this confines itself to the Sol system. This is a real populist uprising."

"There are no populist uprisings anymore,” Ernu said. “Everything is choreographed. Managed for maximum profit. This revolution will end when the rich have fleeced the poor for as much as they can stand. Then they'll let the revolutionaries try to govern for a few years with a wrecked economy, and when prosperity fails to reach the masses the rich will blame it on the revolutionaries and return to power just as before, only richer."

I winced a bit at her remark about fleecing the poor, and was working up a protest about preserving antiquities for posterity when I noticed the Hronan from the table nearer the window, the one who had nodded at me earlier, approaching ours.

"Your opinions are loud enough to hear across the ship,” it said, “but volume doesn't make them correct."

We three humans sat momentarily stunned by its effrontery, but I recovered enough to say, “If we've offended you with our conversation, you have my apology."

"It's not your conversation, but your ignorance that offends,” said the Hronan.

I felt my pulse quicken. “In what way are we ignorant?” I asked.

"Motives,” it said flatly. “Motives for revolution are much more complicated than mere finance. Even among humans."

"You're an expert on human motives, are you?” asked Ernu.

"I am an expert on revolution,” said the Hronan.

A long and tedious journey had made me more tolerant than I might otherwise have been toward a potential argument. And my uncertainty about the situation into which we were traveling lent me the urge to learn whatever I could to prepare me for the months to come. So rather than send it away, I said to the Hronan, “Would you join us, then, and enlighten us?"

"I will attempt to,” it said. It pulled out the remaining chair from the end of the table opposite Ernu, but rather than sit on it normally it spun the chair around and leaned forward against the chair's back. I suppose it was more comfortable that way, given its tail.

"I will tell you a story,” it said. “A story of the Hronan homeworld."

"And this will teach us about human politics?” Ernu asked dubiously.

"If you're smart enough to see the connection,” the Hronan replied. “How many children have you nurtured?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Everything.” The Hronan reached up with a scaly hand—a hand with four equally opposable digits—and pulled at a protrusion on the right side of its head. The protrusion stretched outward like a flap of underarm skin. “I have nurtured six."

I could see six little bumps on the skin flap. Eggs? Nipples? Testicles? I glanced at my newspad, which displayed the phrase “bud scars” inconspicuously in the footnote space.

"Perhaps you aren't aware,” the Hronan said, “that Hronans grow more intelligent with each child we nurture."

VanDerWendt said, “Are you sure of that? It works the other way for us, as a rule."

"No,” said the Hronan. “It doesn't."

VanDerWendt looked to me. “No sense of humor. Check."

The Hronan ignored him. “A Hronan is just another animal until it nurtures its first child. Even then it's barely able to speak, and its motivations are simple and direct. Food, shelter, and sex. With subsequent children come foresight and wisdom. By the fourth child or so, a Hronan is considered mature."

It paused, no doubt to let us consider the ramifications. “I would think you'd face overpopulation in short order,” I said.

"If everyone strove to be wise, that would be true,” the Hronan said. “Fortunately, we are much like humans in that regard. Only a few seek wisdom. The rest are content to be entertained."

I began to protest, but stopped with the speech still forming on my tongue. Even my homeworld of Uvo, renowned galaxy-wide for its high standards of education, held a substantial population of layabouts and vagabonds.

The Hronan said, “We urge our leaders to reproduce as much as possible, even nurture grandchildren, which provides an even greater boost to one's intelligence. A dozen rulers each with a dozen children and several dozen grandchildren will have a negligible effect on the total population, at least directly. Indirectly their accumulated wisdom helps the rest of us manage it very effectively."

"How?” asked Ernu. “By imposing birth control? Taxation? Or some other form of punishment for overbreeding?"

The Hronan tilted its head to the side. “By concocting new recipes, actually. That's the traditional method."

"Recipes?"

"For children."

"Ah,” said Ernu. “You sterilize them chemically so they can't reproduce. We consider that a violation of individual rights."

The Hronan tilted its head again. I suspected that was its equivalent of our shake. “We have no need of sterilization,” it said. “We eat them long before they breed."

VanDerWendt had just taken a spoonful of porridge. He coughed it back into his bowl, then dabbed at his mouth and his tray with his napkin. While he recovered, I said, “I would think that would be considered an even greater violation of individual rights."

"Does a pig have rights?” the Hronan asked. He pointed at the sausage and eggs on Ernu's plate. “A chicken?"

Ernu said, “Yes, as a matter of fact, they do. Pigs and chickens have to be treated humanely, even when they're slaughtered for food."

"As are Hronan young,” the Hronan said. “We have no desire to treat anyone inhronanely. As a purely practical matter, the increase in parents’ intelligence happens only when the child is nurtured, and it takes several years to reach the point of diminishing returns. Only then are the surplus children eaten, usually at feasts celebrating one or another aspect of Hronan culture. The children live perfectly comfortable lives right up to the end."

"An end that comes tragically soon,” Ernu said. “If all of them were nurtured, all could become intelligent, thinking beings."

"And therein lies my story,” said the Hronan. “When humanity first discovered our world, we had enjoyed a stable population and stable politics for millennia. Much as humanity has enjoyed more recently. Our leaders led us wisely, and the general populace enjoyed their lives. Occasionally someone would get the urge to increase their intelligence beyond the average level and would nurture several children to breeding age, but that was rare enough that it seldom mattered. Higher intelligence allowed them to see the consequences of their actions, and they would stop before things got out of hand.

"But when human explorers reached us, the humans were appalled at what they found. They equated our children to human babies, which apparently develop intelligence whether they breed or not. They wouldn't rest until they had destroyed the system that led to these children's ‘murder,’ as they called it."

The Hronan paused, whether to allow its words to have their effect or merely to collect its thoughts, I couldn't tell. I looked to my newspad, which showed an image of an ancient survey ship. It was mostly fuel tanks and engines, by the look of it.

"There is no system so stable that a lever can't be found to move it. The humans were a new thing, and everyone paid attention to them. When they said that developing to maximum capacity was everyone's right, my people took them seriously. Especially seeing their great starship in the sky night after night. We had gone to space in generations past, traveling to other planets in our solar system, but none of those worlds were habitable and our leaders had decided the costs were too great to push outward to other stars.

"Yet the humans told us the stars could be ours if we threw off the tyranny of our social compact and nurtured every child to its own independence."

The Hronan looked out the window at the distant stars. “You can imagine the bloodshed. The leadership tried to reason with the masses, but the masses hadn't the wisdom to understand the truth. All they saw was the inequity. They rose up and slaughtered the leadership in an orgy of violence unparalleled in our entire history.

"Then came starvation. It takes time for intelligence to develop, and we were without it for many years. Plus we were supporting more population with every season. And in times of social upheaval, increased intelligence merely makes for more clever exploitation of others. The first of the new elite swept through the remains of our civilization like a fire, consuming everything in their path, leaving only more destruction in their wake.

"We murdered the humans, of course, but that was too little too late. The revolution brought our entire planet to the brink of disaster. Starvation and illness wiped out half our population. Looting wiped out our cities, our universities, our libraries, our museums. The mortality rate was so high that few people could nurture a child long enough to gain the benefit in intelligence. We nearly lost the ability to write. Religion arose among some of the survivors.” The Hronan snorted. “They of course worshipped the great moving light in the sky."

"The human starship,” said VanDerWendt.

"Correct. The irony was not lost on the generations to follow. For we did begin to recover, despite the high mortality rate. In a way, that was what saved us. The population dropped so dramatically that competition eventually dropped with it, and diseases died out for lack of hosts. After the rest of our ecosystem recovered, mere animals could once again raise families, and thus become intelligent again. It took many generations for enough knowledge to accumulate to let us begin reconstructing a true civilization, but we did so. Archaeologists sifted the ruins of the past and learned how our society had once flourished for so long. We bred a new dynasty of leaders, and rebuilt our cities."

We humans had been listening quietly, perhaps afraid to interrupt. I had heard some of this history before, but not with the intensity this Hronan told it. It had happened long before my time, or the time of anyone yet alive.

I said, “An apology may seem insignificant compared to the offense, but as a human, I feel compelled to—"

"I am not finished,” said the Hronan. “For humanity was not finished with us. We recovered sufficiently to reinvent the telescope, and pointed it at the ‘god’ that watched over us. Imagine our chagrin to learn that our watchful deity was a conglomeration of metal habitat modules and fuel tanks.

"It took several more generations to develop the technology to reach it. Those who did gained entry and found it partially functional. The communication system, in particular, allowed them to contact the spacecraft's homeworld."

My newspad flickered at the corner of my eye. I glanced down to see a large moon in orbit around a gas giant. The characteristic white clouds of a habitable world graced the moon's day side.

"This was before the invention of hyperdrive,” the Hronan said, waving a four-fingered hand at the dining hall around us, and by implication the ship beyond. I noticed that there were no other conversations now. Everyone was listening to the Hronan's story. “Their signal took years to travel to a place called Sagan. It was years before we received a response. And it was years after that before another human delegation arrived. But that arrival was inevitable. It would eventually have happened even if my people had not summoned them. Humanity was expanding outward. The first wave had passed, but there would have been more behind them.

"We had only the dimmest of memories of the first human contact. It had been too brief, and the revolution too soon after for much to have survived in the archeological record. So we accepted the human envoys with open arms, and held a great feast in their honor."

"Oh, no,” said VanDerWendt.

"Indeed,” said the Hronan. “You grasp the essence of it. We, of course, did not. Not even when the humans told us that our system was immoral. It was a new system, barely three hundred years old. We thought perhaps our archaeologists had uncovered an older stratum by mistake, and we had adopted an ancient form of barbarism without fully understanding it. Our leaders knew, of course, but they were few, and the humans told us they were wrong.

"And now we had two starships in our sky, while we could barely reach orbit. Humanity clearly had the better system. They were wildly successful. They had to be right.

"So we accepted their words as truth. We overthrew our government and began nurturing all our children to adulthood. And in short order, we—"

"I get the picture,” Ernu said. Her skin was pale. Her breakfast lay uneaten on her plate.

"You do not,” said the Hronan. “You apprehend a small portion of the picture. The bottom stratum, for that was millennia ago. Humanity has contacted us seven times since then. And each time, the humans have been appalled by our biology."

"I would think—” I began, then stopped myself. “I mean no offense. You know your people. I am simply trying to understand. But I would think you would eventually see that following human mores led to disaster."

"The wise ones among us saw that, of course. The lesser ones, the ones who spent most of their time watching entertainments devised to keep them content, could not. They only heard that they were denied what was rightfully theirs. And so they revolted, again and again and again."

I touched the stud on the bottom of my empty juice glass and waited for it to refill halfway, then downed it in two gulps. “Again,” I said, “I wish to apologize."

"Accepted, with thanks,” the Hronan said. “Perhaps your homeworld will be spared. But the Sol system, the ancestral home of humanity, shall not be so lucky."

"What have you done?” VanDerWendt said, scooting back from the table and standing behind the Hronan to prevent it from rising. “Security!"

The Hronan looked askance at him. “I have done nothing."

"He's probably planted a bomb on board. Hyperdrives use a lot of energy; if he breaches an antimatter pod while we're docked, the explosion could destroy a planet's biosphere."

The Hronan made a repetitive clicking sound. I thought it might be laughter. “Bombs? After what humanity did to us? I think not. We've bred far wiser leaders than that. I am merely here to observe the damage that's already been done."

"The revolution,” Ernu said. “You caused the revolution."

"Nonsense, of course,” the Hronan said. “The people of Sol system are overtaxed. Their leaders spend too much on education. Most of your major planetary governments allow abortion as a family planning practice. All this must change. I hear people shouting it from as far away as my homeworld. The revolution was inevitable. As is its outcome."

The Hronan clicked again. Tk-tk-tk. “Humanity's home system is already dead. I merely come to observe the carrion feed on the corpse."

It stood effortlessly, forcing VanDerWendt backward and nearly pushing him over. It steadied him with a sure hand on his shoulder, then said, “I shall be in my stateroom if you wish to muster a phalanx of villagers with pitchforks.” Then it walked out of the dining hall, leaving stunned silence in its wake.

VanDerWendt sat back down. He and I and Ernu exchanged glances. For perhaps the first time in my life, I had nothing appropriate to say. Could the Hronan be right? Humanity had enjoyed stability for so long, revolution was a new thing to us. How resilient would our social institutions be in the face of mindless violence? How far could we fall?

Ernu found her voice first. “They eat their children,” she said.

"They deserved what they got,” VanDerWendt said.

I gathered up my newspad. “Excuse me,” I told them. “I have much to think about.” I left the dining hall and walked the long, carpeted corridor to my stateroom, wondering what, if anything, I could do.

Copyright (C) 2012 Jerry Oltion

[Back to Table of Contents]

Short Story: FOLLOW-UP by Stephen L. Burns

Everything involves trade-offs. . . .

Dr. Sissy Alvarez knocked back the dregs of coffee-flavored energy drink, then crushed the disposable cup.

"Please admit the next patient,” she said as she tossed the cup into the waste bin and stepped up to the scrub station.

"Admitting next patient.” Aidmit, the system that controlled her unit, spoke in a crisp, only faintly artificial newsreader's voice. It was easy to hear over the almost criminally innocuous mashuclassical music playing quietly in the background. The music evoked pastoral vistas, but did nothing to soften the industrial sterility of her surroundings.

Sissy glanced back over her shoulder as the self-guided gurney glided in, rolled to the center of the unit, and transferred her next patient to the operating table. As she watched, the scrubber chimed, letting her know that she was now properly antiseptic for her next procedure.

As she stepped back the hut quivered at the sound of a distant explosion. She ignored it, just like she'd ignored all the others she'd heard that day. She was so used to them as the other background music for her work that it took debris pinging off the roof over the unit to make her look up.

"Let's see what we've got,” she said.

Aidmit had already collected the data from the gurney. “Patient is male, age twenty-two. Present status: stabilized by field medic; fluids and Schedule A analgesics administered, along with Unipress and TourniQuit to control bleeding. Pre-op has anesthetized patient, removed field dressings, and set up fluid and salvage tanks.” A pause. “Report on patient injuries?"

"I can see them, unless there are any surprises,” Sissy said, shaking her head as she looked over the figure atop the table, automatically categorizing the injuries presented in order of severity. They were all, of course, severe. The human body being punctured by chunks of metal and ceramic traveling at high velocity guaranteed brutal trauma. Any lesser wounds would have been treated at the front.

Already the order in which the patient's injuries would be addressed had taken shape in Sissy's mind. Not so much from conscious deliberation, but from having made such dire choices so many times before. Fifteen years in a downtown Detroit ER, and now the time she had spent here, had given her a terrible and bloody knowledge base to draw upon.

"Let's get to it. Scan and prep."

"Working,” Aidmit replied.

The Experimental Field Surgical Unit filled the hut, and Sissy was as much inside it as her patient. Inside the hut you were inside the guts of the EFSU—everybody called it eff-sue—and the expectation was that one of the two people inside would emerge in far better shape than they'd been in when they entered.

There was a muted hum as the scanhead built into the operating table's top began to move, starting at the patient's bare feet and tracking up toward his head, sending the information it gathered to the Cellular Resolution Hybrid Tomograph. A crawling blue laser line projected from above indicated the progress of the scan. Off to Sissy's left the two-meter-tall screen began displaying results.

Once the scan was complete, four spidery articulated arms swung down from the cruciform gantry over the table and went to work. There was a faint whiff of an almost-vanilla scent as the sprayer arm applied a mist that reduced the ballistic polymer fabric of the soldier's fatigues and underclothes to a viscous liquid that was vacuumed away by a suction device on the second arm, leaving bare skin in its wake.

The third arm laid down a molecule-thin layer of nanotic cleanser and antiseptic. The fourth arm's spinnerets spun out a sterile white covering over the body.

This process took just a couple of minutes, time Sissy spent studying the results of the scan.

There were no surprises.

She had been doing this long enough to have seen just about everything at least once.

"Type P,” Sissy said, holding out her hand.

"Type P,” Aidmit repeated as an applicator was placed on the palm of her hand by the dispenser bot's dangling arm.

The most critical of the soldier's injuries was a classic sucking chest wound. Sissy knew just by looking that the damage had been inflicted by a bayonet or similar large knife. The blade had entered between two ribs and punctured the lung. Guided by the scan, and imagery sent by the built-in picocam, she inserted the applicator's blunt needle into place.

"Apply.” Inside the patient's chest a cloud of specialized Medical Nanoscale Devices and primed replicells, the engineered biomaterial that was a distant relative of stem cells, dispersed and settled on the torn lung tissue. The MNDs scurried to the first of their programmed tasks, moving around replicells and lung tissue scavenged from the area surrounding the trauma to begin repairing it. Alveolar damage and the rent in the lung wall filled in quickly with a blend of MNDs and replicells. Next a percentage of the MNDs settled in place over the repair to act as an extra layer of protection, the rest tracking back up the puncture, sealing tissue and then skin as they exited.

The skin over the wound was partially restored when Sissy said, “Inflate lung."

"Inflation begun.” Air was gently pushed through the self-extruding tube in the patient's nostril.

The repair performed as expected. Function was immediately returned to only three percent less than that of the lobe which hadn't been holed. Over the next few hours the replicells would transform into genetically matched replacement tissue, and the restoration would be complete. It would be like the wound had never happened.

"Looks good,” Sissy said.

"Looks very good,” Aidmit agreed.

She ignored the compliment. It was just noise, part of Aidmit's programming, interaction written in to supposedly help keep a surgeon working long solo hours from going batshit. The syrupy music had been expressly created to perform the same function. Almost everything about the surgical program was experimental.

Aidmit's personality got at best a B grade, the music a D. Flat, of course.

Sissy stopped, frowning.

She stood there just staring long enough that Aidmit, used to her normal speed and efficiency, spoke up.

"Is there a problem, Doctor?"

She heard the question, but it didn't register any more than the distant muted thump of another explosion.

The third severe injury the soldier had suffered was a wound in his left outer thigh. A chunk of shrapnel had punched out a fist-sized hole that went all the way to the bone. The femur had been chipped, but not broken.

It wasn't the wound that made her stop and stare. It was what peeked out at her from the edge of the sterile covering surrounding it.

A tattoo.

Tattoos weren't unusual. These were soldiers, and body art was a part of the lifestyle. This one was not particularly large, about as big around as the English muffin she'd had for breakfast. The artwork was first class, finely detailed and subtly colored. The center of the circular image was a beautifully rendered picture of Dorothy and Toto from the original Wizard of Oz movie, Dorothy holding Toto in her arms, both of them looking wistfully back up at Sissy. Behind them an ethereal rainbow touched down on the edge of the Emerald City. Surrounding all that, repeated three times in neat calligraphy, were the words THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME.

"I've seen this before,” she whispered, lifting her gaze and staring upward with a perplexed expression. “Not that long ago, either. It was just . . ."

There was a memory there, but it was as insubstantial as fog, eluding her attempts to grasp it.

"Doctor,” Aidmit called, “you must continue your procedures."

Sissy studied the soldier's face. It told her nothing. She never looked at their faces, not unless that was where they were wounded. The experimental protocol the entire medical unit operated under in many ways reduced her to even more of a single depersonalized cog in a much larger machine than was usual for the military. The patients were brought straight to her from pre-op, and left her table never to be seen again. The patient's meds guaranteed that he or she would not remember the procedure. They would be wounded, put under, and come out on the other side whole again, with no memory of what had happened in between. This was supposed to cut down on the psychological trauma that came from being wounded.

At first the seamless impersonality of the endless stream of nameless patients had seemed wrong. But over time she'd come to terms with the motto and underlying philosophy of the system they were testing: The faster fixed, the sooner well. We make it like nothing ever happened.

Had she worked on this soldier before?

Unlikely, but not impossible.

"Doctor, please. You must get back to work."

Sissy shook her head to clear it, bent back to the task at hand.

She finished up with that patient and worked quickly and efficiently on the ones who followed.

But her thoughts kept drifting back to that tattoo—and the nebulous almost-memories it had triggered.

The mess hall was nearly deserted. Not a surprise since it was well past midnight. Sissy went through the line and got her tray filled by a sleepwalking corporal, collected a hot tea from the dispenser, then shuffled wearily over to a table in one corner.

She sat down with a sigh. Took a sip of tea, then just sat there staring blankly at her tray, gaze hazed with images of bloody viscera, and thinking, There's no place like home.

"Mind if I join you?"

Sissy jerked in surprise, looking up.

Standing by her table was Colonel Bob Webb, the officer in charge of the entire field surgical unit program.

"Uh, sure.” You don't say no to the boss, inside the military or out. She started to rise to her feet, belatedly adding, “Sir."

"Stay put. You've had a hard night.” Colonel Webb was a tall, Lincoln-homely man who customarily exhibited the loose-limbed slouch of a scientist rather than the ramrod-straight posture of a career soldier. What kind of scientist wasn't exactly clear; somehow that line of inquiry always got neatly sidetracked. She figured there was some psych in the diploma pile.

He parked his tray and settled into the chair across from her. “You look beat, Sissy."

"It was a long shift, sir."

"No need for ‘sirs’ after midnight.” He inspected the slab of meatloaf filling one compartment of his tray. “Not sure if this is animal or vegetable—or other. But I can be pretty sure it will give me heartburn."

His doleful expression made her smile. “Maybe we need a mints bowl full of antacids on the chow line."

"A gesture of surrender, but I could get behind it,” he said with a chuckle. “So, do you think the surgical shifts are too long?"

"No, probably not.” Sissy forced herself to sit up straighter and focus. Webb habitually did this, shifting from breezy chat to serious questions about the program and back again. She recognized this as a technique, one he had completely mastered. “I think it's not so much the duration as the monotony."

The Colonel had started cutting his meatloaf into pieces that were smaller, if not necessarily more digestible. He nodded, looking up. “Can you be more specific?"

Sissy took a sip of tea, searching for the best way to explain it. “Back in the ER in Detroit, wounds like I'm seeing here would be a crash situation. Everyone and every system kicking into high gear."

"Code rush."

"Yeah. You have to summon every skill and mobilize every asset, stat. It's an adrenaline situation, knowing you're doing a high-stakes, high-wire act."

Webb squirted some ketchup on the pieces of meatloaf. “But here the thrill is gone."

Hearing it put that way made it sound petty. Even selfish. “I guess you could say that. The tech I get to work with here is incredible, even better than I imagined it could be. But the system is structured to provide minimum involvement, which means minimum feedback. I don't know who the patients are. I don't know what happens to them after they leave my table.” She hesitated, then added in a joking tone, “For all I know it's the same patients passing through over and over again."

Webb shrugged. “I admit that's one of the downsides of the system we're testing. But I like to think that the upside more than compensates for it.” He put down his fork and dug into the pocket of his white rounds jacket, pulling out an Army issue armored Brick. His fingers moved across the screen.

"Here we go,” he said with a nod. “Today, in the course of your twelve-hour shift, you successfully treated fifteen patients whose trauma score would have meant at least four hours each in a standard, fully staffed ER or operating theater. You did this solo. With zero patient loss and close to zero disability from either their wounds or their treatment.” He looked her in the eye. “That fifteen is your average. Your lowest was six, your highest twenty-one."

Those numbers were a lot to absorb. Fifteen patients who might have needed sixty hours of work from a team of at least five done single-handedly in under twelve hours. “Those are pretty good numbers, right?"

"Good? They're excellent! You're meeting and exceeding the benchmarks we were hoping the effsue program could achieve. What we're doing here will not only revolutionize battlefield medicine, but the methods and techniques we're developing and testing will fundamentally change civilian trauma care."

And that, Sissy reminded herself, was why she'd said yes when the Army had contacted her and asked her to participate in this experiment. Why she'd worked so hard to master the new tech, and pushed so hard using it.

"Then I guess we're doing good work here.” That statement was followed by a yawn.

"You bet we are.” Webb studied her face a moment, smiled. “Listen, as your commander and friend I'm strongly suggesting that you call it a night. Head back to your quarters and grab some rack time. Call today a good day done and rest up for tomorrow."

Sissy looked down at her tray, surprised to see that half the food on it was gone. Eaten robotically while they talked.

Just call me Dr. Autopilot.

"Sounds like a good idea."

Colonel Webb pushed his chair back. “Come on, I'll walk you there."

Sissy's quarters were part of a cluster of Ballisti-Board huts sheltered by a high sandbag berm. The interior of the hut was a drab gray, three-meter cube. While not exactly a suite at a five star hotel, it offered a small island of quiet and privacy.

Her status as an officer in the medical unit had one benefit. She and several other officers shared an orderly. Private Kopinsky had already been through and done her work. The bed had been turned down. A thermal carafe of hot cocoa and a mug were on the table beside her bunk, a plastic cup holding her vitamins alongside it.

Sissy turned on the wall screen to the landscape feed that helped her sleep. It lit with a view of Detroit as seen from a tall building, filling the cubicle with the muted sound of traffic, a rumbling hum broken by distant car horns and the occasional lonesome wail of a siren. The sound of home.

She plunked down on the side of her bunk, sighing at the pleasure of getting off her feet. Kicked off her boots. Poured a mug of cocoa. Collected her vitamins, once again telling herself she really should find out exactly what she was taking. Not that she had any complaints. Her health had been excellent in spite of the grueling surgical shifts, and she'd been sleeping well. Better, in fact, than back home where she'd been prone to bouts of insomnia.

Maybe some of that could be chalked up to its having become such a rarity for her sleep to be ruined by her mind dwelling on the day's failures. She'd done right by them all, right on down the line. Still, she missed the city and her old noisy, chaotic, overburdened emergency room.

No place like home. A sensible sentiment for any soldier, herself included.

She knocked back her vitamins, washing them down with a swig of cocoa. Peeled off her scrubs and crawled into her bunk to be lulled to sleep by the urban soundscape of her own, not particularly Emerald city.

Eighteen days later, halfway into her shift, she was preparing to put every bit of the experimental medical tech at her disposal to work.

The mechanisms and practices for locating and disabling mines, IEDs, and booby traps had improved to the point that such killing strategies were being used less and less as their success rate diminished. This was one of the reasons warfare had grindingly reset to two opposing sides engaging each other directly; action was street by street and house to house, and quite often hand to hand, waged with snipers and strike teams and snake wranglers. Artillery was still popular, but anti-artillery defense weapons managed to block most incoming shells, RPGs, mortar rounds, and tank shells midair. Cutting back their effectiveness, but not stopping them altogether.

All of this, plus the newest generation of body armor, had drastically cut down the number of traumatic amputations coming from the battlefield.

But not stopped them altogether.

The patient's leg had been taken off halfway between his hip and his knee, scythed off by flying metal.

Sissy knew that this was a sure ticket to a prosthetic unless you were lucky enough to end up in one of the few high-end research hospitals that deployed the absolute cutting edge of medical technology.

Tech that tech effsue put at her fingertips.

She was satisfied with her study of the scan and was preparing to start the procedure when Aidmit spoke up. “Doctor, Colonel Webb requests permission to enter and observe."

She frowned in surprise, wondering if he was checking up on her. But there really wasn't any way to say no.

"Sure,” she said. “As long as he's sterile."

"I'm clean,” Webb said as he entered her unit. “I just want to hang around and watch you work. But just to be on the safe side I'll scrub."

"Thanks.” One category of nanodevices cleansed wounds so well that sterile procedure was probably redundant, but old habits—especially good ones—were hard to break.

"No problem.” The scrubber activated as he approached it. “I saw that you're going to perform a large-scale tissue replacement. I haven't had a chance to see one all the way through just yet. Hope you don't mind me rubbernecking."

"No, not at all.” Back stateside the ER was always jammed with people. It was strange to realize that she'd gotten so used to working by herself that having another person in her space felt weird.

Webb stepped back when the scrubber chimed. “Glad to hear it. Don't let me slow you down. And if I get in your way don't hesitate to yell at me to move my ass."

"I won't. Your timing was pretty good. You haven't missed a thing.” Feeling self-conscious, she went back to where she'd been when he arrived.

The patient was prepped, the bloody stump of his leg resting in a deep, clear, fluid-filled trough, the upper end of the vessel conforming tightly to his thigh above the injury.

"We were lucky with this one,” Sissy said over her shoulder, pointing to the condensation-dewed canister across the table from her. “At least eighty percent of the damaged tissue was recovered. It's in there, cleaned and stabilized."

Webb took up a position near the head of the table. “The more original tissue you have, the better the reconstruction."

"Absolutely.” She raised her voice. “Aidmit, are we ready to commence all feeds?"

"Yes, Doctor."

"Then start."

"Feeds commencing."

Several things started happening at once. Nanoscale transporters extracted bone and marrow tissue from the salvage tank and carried this material to the injured area. Precisely metered flows of replicells and universal bone replacement cells were mixed with the original tissue and deposited at the shattered end of the patient's femur.

Sissy and Webb were silent as they watched this swarming cloud work, portions of it already beginning to sketch out the ghostly outline of the missing skeletal mass.

"We have one particular limitation in this sort of procedure,” Sissy said after a few minutes had passed, time she spent making small adjustments to the work in progress. “We can't reconstruct an exact copy of the leg the patient lost—at least not in the narrow time frame we have here. So what we do is build a mirror image of the other leg."

"Guided by information from the scan."

"Yeah. I mean, there are normative rules that can be applied to guide reconstruction in cases where there isn't a second limb or matching body part to copy. But those methods, while quite good, can't compare to this approach."

On the table and in the trough new bone was being erected by nanoscale siroccos, the hazy outline of the new femur growing more solid by the minute. The tibia was a structured mist, and at the knee joint the ghost of the patella hung like a bone hologram.

"The process is carefully staged,” she continued. “See how secondary transports are bringing in tissue to build the beginnings of muscles, tendons, and ligaments? Not to mention the nerves, arteries, and veins.” She leaned close and made yet another adjustment at the wide touchpad on the side of the table.

"This is truly amazing,” Webb said. “Like time-lapse video of something being dissolved running backward."

"It still wows me to see it. This kind of work doesn't really give me any chance to use the skills I honed in the ER surgical unit, but then again I can't imagine trading this for a handful of scalpels."

"How good will the replacement be? You know, how long before it's as good as the original?"

"I don't get to have any sort of follow-up, remember?” Sissy said, giving the Colonel a short, mildly reproachful glance. “But I can make an educated guess. This leg, while it will be perfect in musculature, will lack the tone of the undamaged leg. It will probably be weaker for a while, and stiffer, until it breaks in and tones up. Tomorrow he can walk. In a few days, run. Maybe a month until it is conditioned as well as the original."

"That doesn't sound too bad."

"It's great, in fact. The duplication actually makes improvements. This guy had some minor damage to his knee, and had broken two bones in his foot, both injuries probably dating from his teens. I've edited these defects out."

Webb shook his head in wonder as he watched the furious activity in the tank. “That's part of what you're doing, right? Editing?"

"Editing and guiding. You get a feel for the optimum rate of transport and build, and how to weight the distribution of original cells versus replicells and stock replacements."

The Colonel smiled knowingly. “All medicine is an art, as well as a science. Still, couldn't heuristic systems pick up on these fine tunings?"

"Maybe at some point,” she said, watching closely as the reconstruction continued. “It might work for cut-and-dried situations, but I'm not so sure about when things get dicey or complicated. A surgeon gains a physical skill set, sure, but we also get a sort of Zen feel for the human body. I'm not sure a knowledge system could learn that."

Webb chuckled. “Probably not. And nobody wants to be replaced by a machine."

Sissy shrugged as she made another small adjustment to the replicell balance. “In some ways I've already been replaced. I haven't picked up a scalpel or laid a suture since I got here. All my training in standard surgical tools and their use is being rendered outdated and superfluous."

"You can't miss bone saws."

That made her laugh. “No, only the really old guard ortho guys love their bone saws. Not to mention their hammers, chisels, and power drills."

The patient was beginning to get his foot back. The foot is the most complex part of the human leg; home to 26 bones and a complicated cat's-cradle of connective tissue. The new ankle was growing more solid, the tarsi and phalanges beyond condensing out of the nanotic and cellular whirl. Higher up the leg the femur was complete and largely re-muscled, new skin creeping downward to cloak what had just been recreated.

"So,” Webb said, “would you like to see this sort of tech in every civilian ER?"

Sissy nodded as she studied the levels of original tissue remaining. “You bet I would. That's why I signed on here. Gunshots would become a piece of cake. So would trauma from all kinds of accidents. We have access to a little of this tech, but nowhere near all of it, and certainly not deployed on this scale. I've already had some ideas about how this stuff could be used in other ways."

"Such as?"

"Well, we're already using nanomed and replicells to deal with such things as heart attacks. But the approach is almost always to patch up what's already there. I've been thinking that in some cases we should just yank out the damaged or defective organ, disassemble it, and build a new one from scratch, using only carefully selected bits of tissue from the original. In others build and transplant a—I guess you could call it—standard issue replacement. That might even be better."

Colonel Webb frowned. “I thought you said a rule-based replacement isn't as good as a copy of the original."

"For a hand or leg it isn't. Certainly not for facial reconstruction. But a spleen is a spleen, and a liver is a liver."

"What about hearts? Isn't there a greater diversity of morphology in cardiac structure? Some people having larger, or more efficient hearts than others?"

"There is. But what's to keep us from designing an optimized replacement blueprint? Yank out that moped motor and drop in the engine from a sports car or bulldozer."

"Interesting idea.” He gazed down at the trough. “Looks like you're closing in on completion."

"It'll go faster now. Less mass to be moved around in the foot, and the parts are smaller."

The bone mass was complete, and the intricate banding of muscles, connective tissue, and circulatory structure was rapidly accreting. New skin covered the patient's leg halfway down the calf and was creeping steadily downward.

Sissy put a magnified scan of the circulatory system that had just been built up on the screen. “See where red turns black?"

"I see it."

"Red is normal blood flow. Black is zero blood flow. This is one of the really great things about the residue of nanostructures that temporarily remain in the reconstructed arteries and veins. They can act like valves. I can do this"—She stroked and tapped the table-side display—"and now blood starts slowly working its way into the new pipes and tissues. Check it out."

She bumped up the magnification of the area where reconstruction had begun. “Now you can see individual capillaries coming online. Used to be when you connected two blood vessels you had to worry about leaks. Not an issue when new tissue literally grows out of the old at a cellular level."

There on the table, pink suffused the new leg as it continued to take shape and become alive.

* * * *

The procedure was complete. Blood flow at one hundred percent, the skin pink, healthy, and reactive. Tests that stimulated nerve routing had been run, proving that every muscle was connected and ready to kick butt.

"You've done an absolutely terrific job here,” Colonel Webb said. “Congratulations."

"Thanks.” Sissy glanced at the clock. The procedure had taken just over three hours. Her first thought was, Where did the time go? Then she realized what she'd accomplished in just three short hours.

"Mind if I take a closer look?"

"No, not at all."

Webb came around the table to stand beside her. After studying the new leg a moment he glanced her way. “Do you mind if I compare it to the other leg? So I can see the exact imaging?"

"You really should. You'll find that even the placement of leg hair is duplicated."

"That's really something.” The Colonel appeared to know what he was doing as he reached for the wand used to create an opening in the nanospun sterile fabric covering the other leg. The cloth parted easily under its blunt tip. Once he'd made the cut he wanted, he put the wand aside.

He pulled the drape apart.

"Perfect match,” he said.

"Of course,” Sissy agreed.

"Except for this,” he said with a chuckle.

Sissy bent to look where he was pointing.

It was a tattoo. A picture of Dorothy and Toto from the Judy Garland version of The Wizard of Oz, posed before a rainbow arching down to touch the edge of the Emerald City. The image was surrounded by the phrase THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME repeated three times and forming a circle.

She shrugged. “It was edited out."

"Editing it out was a good idea,” Colonel Webb said with a satisfied nod. He rearranged the drape to cover the original leg once more, straightened up. “You're doing an excellent job here. Like I said the other night, you're meeting or surpassing all our expectations."

Sissy ducked her head shyly at the praise. “Thank you, sir."

"You're welcome.” He checked his watch. “You're due for a short break, and you've sure as hell earned one. So I'll get out of your hair so you can take ten, then get back to it. I'm sure you have new patients waiting."

"Always new patients,” she agreed.

"Yes, there are,” Webb said, looking pleased with her attitude, her understanding of the situation, and how well the experiment was going overall.

Copyright (C) 2012 Stephen L. Burns

[Back to Table of Contents]

Serial: TRIGGERS: PART III OF IV by Robert J. Sawyer

When the rules change radically, power may no longer be where you'd expect. . . .

The story so far:

An al-Qaeda splinter group named al-Sajada has been attacking US monuments with new, highly portable explosives. On a cold November morning, President Seth Jerrison attempts to reassure his distraught nation by giving a speech on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, DC, but a would-be assassin's bullet tears into his back. He's rushed to Luther Terry Memorial Hospital, accompanied by Secret Service agent-in-charge Susan Dawson. There, surgeon Eric Redekop and his team labor to save the president.

In the same hospital, memory researcher Ranjip Singh is using experimental equipment to try to erase the painful memories of a young Iraq War veteran named Kadeem Adams, who is suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.

An al-Sajada bomb is discovered on the roof of the White House. Everyone is evacuated, but the bomb goes off. As it does, a power surge goes through Singh's memory-erasing equipment.

Meanwhile, the surgical team is losing President Jerrison. His heart stops, and Jerrison—a closet atheist—undergoes a classic near-death experience, including a life review. But, as he tells hospital CEO Mark Griffin when he's revived, it's not his own life that he saw.

It soon becomes apparent that twenty or so people at the hospital have had their memories linked in a circular chain: person A reads the memories of B, B reads the memories of C, and so on. Susan Dawson can read the memories of Ranjip Singh, and Susan herself is read by Kadeem Adams. Dr. Redekop is reading a much-younger nurse named Jan Falconi and he, in turn, is read by real-estate agent Nikki Van Hausen. President Jerrison can read Kadeem Adams (it was the young vet's life he saw flash by), and someone, as yet unidentified, is reading President Jerrison. Recognizing that this represents an enormous threat to national security, Agent Dawson orders the hospital locked down, and begins a systematic search for whoever is accessing the president's memories.

Unbeknownst to Dawson, the United States is about to embark on a massive clandestine military operation code-named Counterpunch, aimed at the terrorists who have been attacking the US. Secretary of Defense Peter Muilenburg is supervising preparations from the Pentagon.

The man who shot Jerrison is killed trying to escape, and is soon identified. Shockingly, it was Gordon “Gordo” Danbury, a Secret Service agent. The attempt on the president's life was an inside job—and it's anyone's guess how high up the conspiracy goes.

It seems everyone within a 32-foot-radius of Singh's equipment was affected. Hospital worker Rachel Cohen turns out to be able to read the memories of lawyer Orrin Gillett, and the two of them, previously unacquainted, quickly become a couple. Dora Hennessey has come to the hospital from London to donate a kidney to her long-estranged father, Josh Latimer; Dora's memories are read by hospital security guard Ivan Tarasov.

Meanwhile, Eric Redekop is recalling more of nurse Jan Falconi's past—including the fact that she's abused by her husband Tony, and that she is addicted to narcotics.

Cardiac specialist David January claims to be linked to his wife Ann—but is really linked to the hospital CEO, Mark Griffin, and intends to use the knowledge he has of Griffin's past to blackmail him. A fight ensues between the two of them, which Ranjip Singh breaks up, to his and everyone else's surprise, by expert use of karate—Singh didn't know karate before this, but the person whose memory he can read does. The linkages are getting more powerful as time goes by.

President Jerrison is frustrated being stuck in the hospital on the eve of Operation Counterpunch. Killing time, he thinks back to the “13 Code,” a substitution-cipher system he invented when he was ten years old.

Jerrison realizes he's heard the name of his assailant before. In fact, the day before he was shot, as he was entering the Oval Office, he overheard Leon Hexley, the director of the Secret Service, saying into his cell phone, “Tell Gordo to . . ."—but Jerrison can't recall the rest of it.

It turns out that an 87-year-old white woman named Bessie Stilwell was likely affected by Singh's equipment, but she left the hospital before the lockdown began. Her vision and hearing are poor, and although her memories are being read by an African-American member of the Secret Service named Darryl Hudkins, he can't figure out where she's gone.

A missing link is discovered in the memory chain—one of the affected people is four months pregnant, and her baby is part of the circle. That lets Singh determine that Bessie Stilwell, who remains missing is likely the person reading the president's memories. At last, Darryl Hudkins recognizes where she is—the Watergate Hotel, near the hospital. He rushes off to bring her back, but is appalled by her racist memories. Still, she's definitely the one reading Jerrison. Lawyer Orrin Gillett has pointed out that legally Susan Dawson can't detain people any longer, and the other affected individuals leave Luther Terry as the lockdown ends.

President Jerrison has a private meeting in his hospital room with Bessie Stilwell, to see if the old woman can remember any more of the enigmatic phone conversation he overheard in the Oval Office. Probing his memories, she adds one more ominous word to what Director Hexley had said: “Tell Gordo to aim . . ."

Jerrison asks Singh if there's any way to bring back more of the memory. Singh says memories come back best at the place in which they were lain down—but, since the White House has been destroyed, there's no possibility of that anymore.

Security guard Ivan Tarasov heads home, but seeing his own three-year-old daughter triggers him to recall Dora Hennessey's memories from when she was the same age—horrid memories of being sexually abused. His autistic brain lets him remember things Dora herself cannot.

Meanwhile, Susan Dawson accedes to Private Kadeem Adams's request that he get to meet the president—who is reading his memories. It seems a perfect photo op, and all is going well, until Adams deliberately triggers them both to have a traumatic flashback to the Iraq war, making Jerrison the first president in decades to feel a soldier's terror at the things those back home had ordered soldiers to do.

* * * *

Chapter 27

Susan Dawson spoke into her sleeve mike. “Get Singh in here right away!” She wheeled on Kadeem Adams. “What did you do to him?"

"Nothing,” said Adams, but he seemed to be struggling to get even that single word out.

Susan looked over at the president, lying on his bed, his head propped up, his eyes wide with terror, sweat beading on his forehead. Dr. Alyssa Snow was listening to his chest with a stethoscope.

"Nothing my ass!” said Susan. “What did you do to him?"

But Kadeem's eyes were closed and he was swaying erratically from side to side, as if having trouble keeping his balance. He hadn't touched him. He hadn't done anything, and yet—

"For God's sake, Kadeem,” Susan exclaimed, “he's recovering from heart surgery!"

She heard rapid footfalls in the corridor outside, and then the door burst open revealing Ranjip Singh in the company of one of the Secret Service agents. Susan pointed at Jerrison. “Kadeem did something to the president's mind and now he's having a seizure."

Susan watched Ranjip turn to look at Kadeem, and she followed his gaze. Kadeem had his eyes scrunched tightly shut and was shaking his head rapidly in a small arc from left to right. His forehead was slick with sweat.

"Oh, shit,” said Singh, the first time Susan had heard him swear. He went over to Kadeem and guided him—Kadeem's eyes were still closed—to the chair next to the president's bed, and gently, almost lovingly, he eased Kadeem into it. And then he took one of Kadeem's hands in his, light brown against dark brown, and, to Susan's surprise, he reached over and took one of the president's in his other hand, beige against light brown, and he stood between the two men, a human bridge, and he said, “All right, both of you, listen to me—listen to me! You're having a flashback. It's me, it's Ranjip Singh, and you're at Luther Terry Hospital. You're home, you're in the United States, and you're safe. You're safe!"

Susan started toward the bed; she didn't like that Singh had brought Kadeem so close to Jerrison. But Dr. Snow motioned for her to stay back. Susan could see the sheet over the president's chest heaving up and down. Above the rapid beeping of his heart-rate monitor, she could hear Kadeem whimpering softly.

"You're safe,” Ranjip said again. “You're safe. That was thousands of kilometers away and many, many months ago. It's over. Kadeem, it's over. And Mr. President—Mr. Jerrison—Seth—it's over."

Susan felt helpless—and furious; she never should have allowed Adams in here. Christ, he might end up as the guy who'd managed to succeed at what Gordo Danbury had failed to do. The president's heart was still racing, and Dr. Snow was busily preparing a hypodermic.

"Take a deep breath,” Ranjip said, looking at the president, whose eyes were still wide, and “Take a deep breath,” he said to Kadeem, whose grip, Susan saw, was so tight now on Singh's hand that it must be hurting them both. “Hold it in,” Ranjip said. “Just hold it, for a count of five: one, two, three, four, five. Now, let it out, slowly, slowly—that's right, Seth, that's right. Kadeem, you can do it, too: slowly, gently, let the air out, let the memory out, release it, let it go . . ."

* * * *

There was an extended silence from the president's monitor as his heart skipped a beat, and when that happened, Susan's own followed suit. Dr. Snow looked at him with concern, but when the beeps started again, they were progressively further apart.

"Again,” said Ranjip. “Take a deep breath again, both of you. Relax. Now, concentrate on something peaceful: a clear blue sky. That's it; that's all—just that. The sky, blue and clean and bright; a beautiful summer's day, not a cloud to be seen. Peaceful, calming, relaxing."

It looked to Susan as though Kadeem's grip was lessening a bit, and he'd stopped making sounds. The president's eyes were no longer wide and he was blinking rapidly—perhaps as he imagined looking up at a sunny sky.

Jerrison turned at last to Singh and seemed to recognize him. “Thank you,” he said softly. “Thank you."

Singh nodded and let go of the president's hand. He looked at Kadeem, and Dr. Snow immediately moved in and mopped the president's brow. She then placed her stethoscope back on the president's chest and nodded, apparently satisfied with what she was hearing.

Kadeem was shaking, Susan saw, as if he were freezing to death. Ranjip was now facing him directly. He took both his hands and looked straight into Kadeem's eyes, which had finally opened. “It's all right,” Ranjip said again. “It's all right."

Ranjip had a puzzled expression. Susan realized the Canadian wanted to ask Kadeem what had triggered the flashback, but, of course, he couldn't; asking him that would bring the trigger to mind and might set off another episode. “He did it,” Susan said, pointing at Kadeem. “Deliberately."

"No,” said Ranjip, shaking his head. “Surely not."

"He did it,” Susan repeated. “He did that to the president."

Ranjip looked at Kadeem, as if expecting a denial, but when none was forthcoming, Ranjip said softly, his tone conveying he was stunned by what the young man had done. “Kadeem . . ."

Susan spoke into her sleeve. “Dawson to Hudkins and Michaelis: come to Prospector's room right away.” She looked at Kadeem. “You've made the mistake of your life,” she said. “This was the stupidest thing you—"

"Agent Dawson.” The voice was weak but oh-so-familiar.

She turned to face Prospector. “Yes, Mr. President?"

"Go . . . easy . . . on the . . . young man,” Jerrison said.

"But, sir, he—"

Jerrison silenced her with a hand gesture and he turned his gaze to Kadeem just as the door opened, revealing the two agents Susan had called for. “Private Adams,” Jerrison said, still weak, “was that . . . what it was . . . really like?"

Kadeem nodded once. “Yes, sir, Mr. President. I'm sorry I had to—"

Susan saw the president make the same silencing gesture at Kadeem as he had at her, and Seth Jerrison was a hard man to disobey. “You went through all of that?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. President.” Kadeem paused, then: “And not just me, sir. Lots of us went through it, or something similar."

Jerrison seemed to consider this for a time, then, at last, he slowly nodded, and, to Susan's surprise, he said, “Thank you, Private Adams. Thank you . . . for sharing that with me."

And then Kadeem Adams surprised Susan. He stood up ramrod straight and crisply saluted his commander in chief. “Thank you, sir."

* * * *

Eric Redekop and Janis Falconi exited the building, Eric carefully avoiding the reporters who were camped out front. It was a cold night, and he found himself feeling an urge to put his arm around Jan's shoulder, but he didn't. They walked along Pennsylvania Avenue. Things were eerily silent for a Friday night; doubtless, after today's bomb blast, many people were staying indoors. Eric remembered it had been the same way after 9/11, when an American Airlines 757 had crashed into the Pentagon.

In the first block west of LT, they had a choice between the Foggy Bottom Pub and Capitol Grounds Coffee; thank God the pubs and cafés were keeping their doors open. They opted for the pub and found a booth near the back where they could talk.

"So,” Eric said, after they'd sat down, and “So,” said Janis.

A middle-aged waitress looking worn down by the day's events took their orders: two draft beers.

"I don't know how long these linkages will last,” Eric said, “but . . ."

"Yeah,” said Jan. “But."

"I . . . ah, I didn't know . . . I don't mean to pry. Really, I've been trying not to, but . . ."

"But you can't help it. I know; I keep getting Josh Latimer's memories, too."

"At work, sometimes . . . when you're alone, you . . . to . . . to ease the pain, you . . ."

She lowered her eyes. “Are you going to report me?"

"No, no. I'd like to see you get help, though. You know there are confidential programs . . ."

"Thanks.” She paused. “There's a lot of bad stuff in my life."

They were seated on opposite sides of the booth; her hands were on the table between them. He found his hand moving over to cover one of hers. “I know."

Their beers arrived.

* * * *

"All right,” said Susan, after Kadeem had finished saluting the president. “That's enough. Private Adams, you're under arrest.” She'd not only have to lock him up, but also sedate him to make sure he didn't try something similar again.

To his credit, Kadeem lifted his hands slightly. “Yes, ma'am."

But the president stirred on his bed. “No."

"Sir, he assaulted you."

Jerrison managed some more strength. “I said no, Susan."

"Sir, we can't let him debilitate you at will.” She indicated that Kadeem should move toward the closed door.

"No,” said Jerrison again. “Private Adams stays, but I want the rest of you out of here. All of you: Alyssa, Sheila, Susan, Professor Singh, Agent Michaelis, and you, there, the photographer. Out."

"Sir!” said Susan.

"Do it. And find Maria Ramirez, the pregnant woman, if she hasn't yet gone home. I want to speak to both of them."

"But, Mr. President, I—"

"Right away, Agent Dawson."

Susan nodded. “Yes, sir."

* * * *

Seth Jerrison found it odd to be talking with Kadeem Adams. They'd only just met, but he had all the young man's memories. Normally, Seth didn't have much patience for people telling him things he already knew, but listening to Kadeem go on about his life in Los Angeles was actually relaxing; as soon as Kadeem started to tell a story, the episode came to Seth's mind, just as it had come to Kadeem's, although he doubtless was reconstructing it differently. And so while Kadeem spoke, Seth let his mind concentrate on the problem at hand.

Agent Dawson opened the door to the president's room; she looked relieved to see him simply lying there, listening to Kadeem.

"Mr. President,” she said, indicating a young woman with long brown hair, “this is Maria Ramirez. You're in luck; she was still waiting for her husband to come pick her up."

"Thank you,” Seth said weakly. “That will be all, Susan."

She blew out air, clearly unhappy, then looked meaningfully at Kadeem. “I'll be just outside."

Seth waited until she'd left, then indicated for Maria to take a chair; Kadeem was already sitting in the one closest to the bed.

"Maria, thank you for making time for me."

"It's an honor, Señor Presidente."

"I understand you and your husband are expecting a baby."

"Si."

"Congratulations. That's wonderful."

"Thank you, sir."

"I have a favor to ask of you, Maria.” Seth turned to Kadeem. “I need a favor from you, as well, please; I need help from both of you.” He caught his breath, then went on. “Professor Singh tells me that you're linked to Susan Dawson, Kadeem. And, Maria, I'm told you're linked to Darryl Hudkins, the other Secret Service agent who was affected by all this."

"Yeah,” said Kadeem, and “Si,” added Maria.

"What I'm about to tell you very few people know so far. The person who shot me was named Gordon Danbury. He was a Secret Service agent. Agents Dawson and Hudkins know this—can you find it in their memories?"

Kadeem looked astonished, but he nodded. But Maria said, “I already knew this. Agent Susan asked me about it."

"Really?” said Seth.

"Yes. She wanted to know if she could trust Agent Darryl."

"Ah. Yes, well, that's what I want to know, too. Whether I can trust him—and whether I can trust Susan. If the two of you search your memories, you can tell me if Agent Dawson or Agent Hudkins are compromised. Just ask yourselves if you knew anything in advance about a plot to kill the president—because if they knew about it, you'd know about it, too. Kadeem?"

The young man frowned. “Nothing, sir."

"Maria?"

"No. Like I told Agent Susan, Agent Darryl is not involved."

"Secret Service agents use my code name: Prospector. Any memories of a plan to kill—or assassinate—or take out—Prospector? Or to eliminate POTUS? That's P-O-T-U-S: president of the United States. Anything?"

"Well, there's all kinds of stuff about the investigation since that guy shot you,” Kadeem said. “Sue's been getting constant updates. But I'd swear she didn't know about it beforehand."

"You're sure?"

"Mr. President, I know her like I know myself. I'm sure."

"And Maria? What about Agent Hudkins? Again, any inkling that he might have known in advance, or been involved in any way?"

"No, sir. Nothing like that."

"All right,” said Seth. “Thank you. I'm glad to know I can trust Agents Dawson and Hudkins. There's already one other agent who has come under suspicion, a man named Jenks. But if Danbury and Jenks were part of a larger conspiracy, and if that conspiracy involves others in the Secret Service, well, I . . ."

"You be fucked,” said Kadeem. “Sir."

"Yes, exactly, Private Adams. I be fucked."

* * * *

Chapter 28

Agents Dawson and Michaelis stood outside the door to President Jerrison's room, along with Dr. Snow and Sheila the nurse; Singh had gone back to his lab. Susan looked left and right down the corridor, nodding at the other Secret Service agents she could see at either end.

At last, the door opened and she looked at the two people who were emerging: Private Kadeem Adams and Maria Ramirez.

"It's cool, Sue,” said Kadeem, lifting his hands a bit. “Big man's fine—but he wants to see you."

Susan nodded and spoke into her sleeve mike. “Dawson to Hudkins. I'm returning to Prospector's room."

"Copy,” said Darryl's voice in her ear.

She went in and closed the door behind her. The president did indeed look no worse for wear.

"Sir?” Susan said.

"You knew Gordon Danbury, right?” asked Jerrison.

"Sure. Of course."

"You said he was called Gordo by the other agents?"

"Yeah, most of the time.” She shrugged a little. “Off duty, we get a bit informal. The Susanator—that's what they call me. Darryl Hudkins is sometimes called Straw; you know, after Darryl Strawberry, the baseball player. And Gordon Danbury, he was Gordo."

Jerrison managed a slight nod. “Leon Hexley was talking on his BlackBerry on Wednesday in the Oval. He said, ‘Tell Gordo to aim . . .’ but I don't remember what came after that. But if it was related to what happened—well, it means there's a conspiracy and it goes pretty high up."

"But you've known Mr. Hexley for years,” said Susan.

Seth managed a philosophical movement of his shoulders. “What I've discovered today is that I don't know anybody—well, anybody except Kadeem Adams. I mean, seriously: you and I work together practically every day, Susan, and I know almost nothing about you—where you live, what hobbies you have, whether you're seeing anyone, what you were like as a little girl.” He paused and caught his breath. “I've long been acquainted with Director Hexley, but I don't know him. And yet there are forty-four hundred sworn members of the Secret Service, and Hexley knew Danbury well enough not only to be on a first-name basis with him, but a nickname basis."

Susan frowned; that was curious. “But you don't remember what Mr. Hexley said?"

"No—because it didn't make sense at the time, and I had other things on my mind. I've racked my brain, but . . . no. It was weird, what he said, I remember that. But I just can't recall it. I do remember he shut up and turned off his phone the moment he realized I had entered. Didn't even say goodbye."

"Forgive me, sir, but that's not necessarily suspicious. People are conscious of how busy you are. You don't make the president wait while you finish a personal call.” She paused. “A thought, sir. Did you have the Oval Office set up to record conversations the way Nixon did? And were they maybe backed-up off-site?"

Seth shook his head. “Didn't work out so well for Nixon, that."

"True enough.” Susan replied. “So now what?"

"First, I need you to get Hexley's cell-phone records."

"Will do—but they're almost certainly encrypted and scrambled. After Obama insisted on getting to keep his BlackBerry, all sorts of extra security was instituted on the units issued to high-level government officials. I suspect it'll take days to decrypt them, if it can be done at all."

"Damn,” said Jerrison.

"Is there anything else, Mr. President?"

"Yes,” he said. “I want to send Mrs. Stilwell on a little trip in the morning."

* * * *

"It's so strange,” Jan Falconi said, as she sipped her second beer, “having a man's memories.” She shook her head. “And, I gotta say, Josh Latimer is pissed."

"About what?” asked Eric.

"He was supposed to receive a kidney transplant this morning, and the surgery was canceled after it had begun, to make room for the president. He and his daughter—she's the donor—were being dealt with in the corridor outside your O.R. while you were working on Jerrison; I was tending to them."

"Good Christ,” said Eric. “I saw them there when I went in, but I didn't know what it was about."

"He's thinking about suing."

"I can't say I blame him, but . . . well, most kidney transplants aren't time-sensitive, and the president had to be treated immediately."

"Still,” said Jan, shaking, “the last thing I need is someone being angry inside my head."

"I know,” Eric said gently.

Jan clearly wanted to change the subject. “Somebody must be reading your memories, too."

"Yeah,” Eric replied. “Her name's Nikki Van Hausen. She's a real-estate agent."

Jan smiled. “That's funny."

"It is?"

"Sure. Her name is Van Hausen and she sells houses. It's like a dentist named Payne or . . ."

"Or Larry Speakes,” said Eric—and then he realized the name didn't mean anything to her. “He was the White House spokesman for Ronald Reagan."

She smiled. “Exactly. There's a name for that. It's called—” and as she said it, it came to Eric, but not from his memory—he'd never heard the term before—but from hers: “nominative determinism."

"Cool,” he said, making an impressed face.

"They talk about it in New Scientist all the time,” she said.

"You read New Scientist?” And then: “Oh, so you do. You subscribe."

"I adore it,” she said. “Great magazine."

He looked at her in the dim light of the bar. She was absolutely lovely but she was eighteen years younger than him. Which was crazy. Which was nuts.

The waitress appeared. “Another round?"

Eric gestured at Jan; it was up to her.

"Sure,” she said. “Why not?"

* * * *

"Hi, Darryl,” Susan said as she entered the conference room on the first floor, just down the corridor from Trauma.

Darryl Hudkins was sipping a coffee. His shaved head was showing a faint stubble, and his face was showing even more. “Hey, Sue."

"The president wants me to send you on a trip tomorrow morning."

"Somewhere warm and exotic, I hope."

"Well, it'll be warm, anyway. And he wants you to take Bessie Stilwell with you."

"Oh,” said Darryl, sounding not at all enthusiastic now. “Does it have to be me?"

Susan looked at him. “You're the one linked to her so, yeah. There's no one who knows her mind better than you do. After all, she's still a security risk."

"Lucky me,” said Darryl.

"Look, I think I have an inkling of what's eating you,” Susan said, “but there'd be no respite for you in just staying here if we sent her somewhere else. You'd still be linked. Singh says—well, okay, he didn't say it, but he knows it: quantum entanglement works even across light-years of separation.” She tried to lighten his mood. “All those geeks at the Pentagon who have been working on remote communication are going to love this."

But Darryl shook his head. “The problem is that when I see the way she looks at me, it triggers me to remember her past—and her feelings."

Susan smiled sympathetically. “I'm sorry, Darryl, but it's got to be you."

* * * *

Chapter 29

Saturday

Tony Falconi came home drunk. Again.

Janis sat on the couch, afraid to say a word. Anything could trigger his anger, and—

And he was looking around the living room. Janis's pulse quickened. She knew what he was doing: seeking something—anything—to find fault with. Something that she hadn't cleaned properly, something that hadn't been put away, something that hadn't been done to his satisfaction. It didn't matter that she'd been locked up at the hospital until late, it didn't matter how much she'd done right; he'd find the one thing she'd done wrong, and—

"I thought I told you to get rid of that chair,” he said, pointing.

Janis's stomach was churning. What he'd actually said was he was thinking they should get rid of that chair—it was an old kitchen-table-style chair and had a rip in the vinyl upholstery; it wasn't worth repairing. But she knew contradicting him would be a mistake.

But so, apparently, was silence. “Didn't I?” he snapped. And then, without waiting for her answer, he said, “So why the fuck is it still here?"

"I'm sorry,” Janis said softly.

"You're always sorry,” Tony said. He surged forward, grabbed her arm—the one with the tiger tattoo—and roughly pulled her to her feet. “You stupid bitch,” he said, shoving her now toward the chair, and—

—and Eric Redekop shook his head violently, trying to fling the memory away.

But he couldn't. This one or ones like it kept coming back to him.

Eric was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, as the morning sun poured in around his blinds. Janis had headed home around 10:00 p.m.—he'd paid for a cab to take her from the pub—and Tony had staggered in an hour later.

He rolled onto his side, drawing in a deep breath then letting it out slowly.

He couldn't take this. And she shouldn't have to.

The old memories of events like this would always be there. But he could at least make sure that no similar new ones were ever laid down.

It wasn't his place. It wasn't his responsibility. It wasn't his duty.

But he'd saved the president of the United States. Surely he could save this woman, too.

And suddenly it came to him. A memory from a month ago, forcing itself into his awareness, and . . .

No. Not one memory; a series of memories. Memories of . . . of every month—the . . . yes: the fourth Saturday morning of every month. Jan went to play Dungeons & Dragons at . . .

He'd never heard of it, but apparently the Bronze Shield was the largest gaming store in the capital district. It was her one day out a month; Tony almost never came—he preferred to stay home and watch TV. But Jan's brother Rudy was usually there; in fact—ah, yes—that's why she was allowed to go at all: keeping up the appearance of freedom in front of her family, lest eyebrows be raised.

And—yes, today was the fourth Saturday. Still, he asked himself if the event had been canceled in light of what had happened yesterday, but it hadn't been as far as she knew—which meant she would indeed be at the Bronze Shield this morning.

All right then. All right.

* * * *

Susan Dawson had grabbed some sleep in the conference room downstairs; she figured she got maybe five hours. When she woke up, she went to check with Ranjip Singh, who also hadn't gone home.

It was odd not having to ask him for an update; she knew what he'd been doing. Before he'd gone to bed, he'd contacted his colleagues back in Toronto, as well as those at the Montreal Neurological Institute, the Center for Cognitive Neuroscience at Penn, and the Center for Consciousness Studies at the University of Arizona, providing copies of his data to them, hoping someone somewhere might have an idea how to break the linkages.

And this morning, the weird happenings here at LT had finally merited some time on the news, after almost continuous coverage of the assassination attempt and the bomb explosion at the White House; Singh and a few of the affected people had been interviewed here in Singh's lab.

But the TV crew was gone now, and Singh was plugging away at his computer.

"Good morning, Agent Dawson,” he said, as Susan entered.

"Ranjip."

At that moment, a uniformed hospital security guard entered. He had two holsters, one holding a walkie-talkie and the other a gun.

"Professor Singh?” the man said.

"Yes?"

"I'm Ivan Tarasov.” Susan remembered him from yesterday; he had been affected by Singh's equipment, and had found David January for Susan, and, later on, she'd interviewed him. She glanced at the white board: Tarasov could read Dora Hennessey, the kidney donor, and in turn was read by Orrin Gillett, the lawyer.

"You have to do something about these links,” Tarasov continued. He must be addressing Singh, Susan thought, but he wasn't actually looking at him, or at her.

Singh gestured at his computer screen. “I am trying."

"You have to do more than try. This is driving me crazy."

"How do you mean?” asked Singh.

Tarasov did glance briefly in Susan's direction, but, again, didn't actually meet her gaze.

"Every time I look at my daughter, I see images of a little girl being molested."

"My . . . God,” said Singh. “You're linked to Dora Hennessey, right?"

"Yes."

"So it's her memories of being molested?"

"I guess."

Singh's mouth fell open. “That's . . . horrible."

"It's disgusting. That poor little girl."

"How old was Dora when this happened to her?"

"I think she was the same age my daughter is now. Three."

Singh consulted a document on his computer. “Miss Hennessey is thirty-seven.” He looked up. “The person abusing her—do you know who it was?"

"I'd never have recognized him today, but yes. It was her father, Josh Latimer."

"The fellow she's giving the kidney to?” Singh said, surprised.

"I don't think she remembers the abuse,” said Tarasov, still not actually looking at Singh. “I can't recall her ever discussing it with anyone."

Susan saw Singh's eyebrows go up. “That's . . . fascinating."

"What is?"

"You remember something from her past that she doesn't. I wonder why."

Tarasov frowned. “Maybe the memories are so traumatic, she's blocked them out."

"That's one possibility,” said Singh, “but . . ."

"Yes?"

"You said you thought she was three when this happened."

"It had to be,” said Tarasov. “Three, or earlier. Dora's mother and father split when she was three. She didn't see him again until this past year when he tracked her down, hoping she'd be a good tissue match—and that she might agree to the donation."

"Three . . . or younger,” said Singh.

"Yes."

"Most adults remember almost nothing from before they were three and a half or even four. But . . ."

"Yes?"

Singh said, “I've seen you around the hospital—before all this, I mean. You are . . . a bit of a loner."

"So?"

"And you tend not to meet people's gaze. In fact, you avert your eyes."

"Are you accusing me of something, Mr. Singh?"

"No, no. Not at all. But if I may ask: are you on the autism spectrum?"

"I'm an Aspie,” said Tarasov.

"Asperger's syndrome,” said Singh, nodding. “Do you think in pictures?"

"Yes."

"Pictures, not words?"

"Most of the time."

"And do you remember your own very early life?"

"I remember my birth,” Tarasov said. “Lots of people on the spectrum do."

"Well, there it is,” said Singh, looking at Susan then back at Tarasov. “Everyone starts out life thinking in pictures; they have to, of course—we don't get language until much later. When we do acquire language, our indexing system for memories changes: words, rather than images, become the principal triggers of recall, and we can no longer recall things from before we had sophisticated linguistic abilities. It's been argued that the memories are still there, but they're inaccessible. But you, Mr. Tarasov, can access Miss Hennessey's original indexing system, the prelinguistic one, because you think in pictures. You can remember things from her past that she herself no longer can. In fact . . . can you remember her birth?"

He thought about it. “I was born in Russia, at home, years before my family came here. But Dora . . . she'd been born—yes, I can see it now—in a hospital room with blue walls, and—the details are fuzzy; I guess infants don't focus well—and the doctor doing the delivery was a woman with short black hair."

"Incredible,” said Singh, his voice full of awe. “Fascinating."

"This isn't an academic point,” said Tarasov, sharply. “I can't get the memories of her being molested out of my mind. They keep coming to me every time I look at my own daughter. It's like having horrific child pornography constantly shoved in my face."

"I'm sorry,” said Singh. “I am so sorry."

"Sorry doesn't fix it,” said Tarasov, and for once he looked directly at Singh. “This needs to be solved, right away."

* * * *

Chapter 30

Darryl Hudkins had never flown business class, and he'd assumed he never would. But the president had, for some reason, insisted they take a commercial airliner to their destination, and the next flight heading there had nothing but premium seats available.

All of which was fine, except . . .

Except it was a long flight, and . . .

And he could read Bessie's memories.

He swallowed and tried to be calm, tried to ignore them, but . . .

But she was nervous, damn it all. She was nervous traveling with him because—

Because he was black.

Because she'd heard awful things about black men.

Because both in DC and back where she lived in Mississippi, most of the crime—or so she thought—was committed by black men.

He tried not to think about what she was thinking about, tried to put her thoughts out of his mind, but—

But it came back to him. She'd thought the n-word.

The fucking n-word!

He leafed through the in-flight magazine, noting another petty indignity—the almost complete lack of black people in the ads. He looked around at the other passengers: a fat white guy softly snoring, a prim white woman reading on a Nook, two white men chatting softly about some sort of investment.

And, damn it all, he couldn't help wondering what experience Bessie had had with black men, and—

And to wonder was to know.

Bessie had grown up in Memphis. Lots of blacks there, of course, but even after all this time, not much mixing; even after all this time, separate but not equal; even after all this time, people thinking, even if they never said it, “colored” and “Negro” and worse.

His stomach churned, and not just because the plane was experiencing turbulence.

* * * *

No sooner had Ivan Tarasov left Singh's lab than two more people came in.

Oh, joy, thought Susan. The people were Rachel Cohen, the woman who worked in accounts receivable at LT, and Orrin Gillett, the lawyer who'd tried to get out as the lockdown was being initiated yesterday. Susan was surprised to see them back here—surely Rachel didn't normally work weekends, and Orrin had made it crystal clear that this was the last place he wanted to be.

"Professor Singh,” Rachel said. “I was hoping you'd be in today."

"And Agent Dawson,” said Gillett, dryly. “Always a pleasure."

"Is everything okay?” Singh asked. “Miss Cohen, you can read Mr. Gillett, I believe? Has anything changed in that regard overnight?"

Susan thought he sounded hopeful; if their link had weakened or broken of its own accord, of course that would be wonderful.

"No,” said Rachel. “It's still exactly like yesterday."

"I am so sorry,” said Singh. “Believe me, I had no idea—"

"I saw you on TV earlier this morning,” Rachel said, cutting him off. “The interview you gave."

"Ah, yes. I hear they subtitled me! Really, my accent isn't that thick, is it?"

"You said you were trying to break the linkages."

"Yes, of course."

"You can't,” Rachel said simply.

Singh smiled. “You do wonders for my confidence, Miss Cohen. I admit I don't yet have any clue how—"

"I mean you can't,” Rachel said. “I won't allow it."

"Pardon?"

She reached over and took Orrin Gillett's hand in hers. “I like being linked to Orrin. I don't want you to break the link."

Susan was surprised, and so, quite clearly, was Ranjip. “But, Ms. Cohen,” he said, “once I figure it out, I suspect all the links will break simultaneously."

"I don't care about the other links, but you can't break mine. It's important to me. And it's important to Orrin, too, isn't that right?"

"Yes,” Gillett said.

Susan was baffled. “But why?"

Gillett looked at her. Rachel squeezed his hand and said, “It's okay."

"Because,” Gillett said, “it makes this woman the perfect lover. Don't you see? She knows exactly what I like; she knows everything there is to know about me."

"And,” said Rachel, “I get to recall us making love from his point of view—him seeing me, feeling what it's like for him being inside me."

Singh's complexion didn't let him visibly blush, but he nonetheless looked embarrassed. “Well, as my son would say . . .” Ranjip began, and it came to Susan before he completed his sentence exactly what Harpreet would say: “'Whatever floats your boat.'” But then Ranjip shook his head. “But, as I said, I believe it is an all-or-nothing proposition as far as the network of linkages is concerned."

"Be that as it may,” said Gillett, “Rachel does not consent to the procedure."

"What?” said Susan—but she could see Singh frowning.

Gillett faced her. “Before this hospital, or any other, may perform an experimental procedure on someone, that someone has to provide informed consent. And Rachel chooses not to."

"The others want the links severed,” said Singh.

"I don't care what the others want,” said Rachel. “You are talking about making a fundamental change to my mind, my mental processes—and I forbid it."

"But it was an accident—"

"That's right: what you did to me before was an accident. But what you're talking about doing now is premeditated, and I won't allow it."

"Really, Ms. Cohen—"

Gillett folded his arms in front of his chest. “Listen to her, Professor Singh. Without informed patient consent, you can't conduct any procedure on her—and you know that. And you categorically do not have my—my client's consent."

"This is a national-security matter,” Susan said.

"Why?” said Gillett, wheeling on her. “Because you say so? Puh-leeze. Rachel's reading me and I'm reading a security guard, for God's sake. There's no national-security issue involving us—but you can bet that we'll bring one hell of a lawsuit if you wreck this for us."

The flight attendants were coming through the cabin, offering beverages. Darryl got himself a Pepsi, and Bessie had a coffee, and—

And when the attendant asked her how she wanted it, she hesitated, that same silly hesitancy he'd seen a million times from white people who never once would have associated race with a phrase like “a white Christmas."

"Black,” she said at last.

Bessie had the window seat. They brought down the seat-back trays—effectively trapping them until their beverages were consumed—and so this seemed like the perfect time; she couldn't just excuse herself to go to the lavatory. Darryl took a deep breath. He didn't want to speak loudly—he didn't want others on the plane overhearing. “You know I know what you know,” he said.

She looked puzzled for a moment, perhaps trying to disentangle all the “knows,” but then she lifted her head, and her chin stuck out defiantly. “There is no law against having thoughts,” she said. “This isn't the Soviet Union."

He frowned; she was old. He tried to make a joke. “Or China, either."

But she was buoyed. “Exactly. I can think whatever I want to think."

"Yes, ma'am, you can. I can't stop you. But . . ."

Bessie seemed content to let him trail off; she turned and looked out at the clouds—perhaps pleased to see nothing but whiteness.

"But,” continued Darryl, “I'm a good man, ma'am. I serve my country every day. I'm good to my mother, and to my brothers and sisters. I'm not what you think I am—think we are."

"I don't know anything about you,” Bessie said.

"That's exactly right, ma'am. You don't. You think you do, but you don't. But I know everything about you. It's none of my business—I understand that. But I can't help it. And, you know what, ma'am? I've been searching—forgive me, but I have. Searching for when a black man hurt you, or dissed you, or maybe stole something from you. Searching for when one of us did something to make you feel the way you do."

She turned back to face him. “Well, one of you is violating me right now."

"Yes, ma'am, I understand that. It isn't right, what I'm doing, is it? But like you said, there's no law against having thoughts, and, to tell you the truth, I don't even know how not to think about things.” He paused. “And not to be the pot calling the kettle black"—he smiled gently to let her know that he was conscious of what he was saying—"but I've no doubt you're doing the same thing with Prospector—President Jerrison. I doubt you can help yourself any more than I can."

That, at least, got the barest of nods.

"So, I've tried to recall stuff about unpleasant experiences with black people. And, well, I can't find it. So, I thought maybe you just hadn't stored that they were black folk, although that seemed strange that you wouldn't. And, well, I'm sorry about that guy at high school and what he did to you . . . but I don't think he was black; I don't think there were any blacks in your school. And I'm sorry about the way Cletus treated you—but with a name like that, there's no way he's black. And I'm sorry about all the other bad things that I can recall that happened to you."

"They . . ."

She stopped herself, but he could guess. “They weren't my fault—that's what you were going to say, right? And you're right—they weren't. But they weren't the fault of any black person. Yet you don't like being around black people."

"I really would rather not have this conversation,” she said.

"Honestly? I'd rather we didn't need to have it, ma'am. But I think we do. Stuff happens for a reason. I think the Good Lord set this up on purpose."

Bessie seemed to consider this for a few moments, and then, at last, she nodded. “Perhaps he did, at that."

"I know you believe in God, ma'am."

"Yes, I do."

"I do, too. And there's only one God, ma'am. He made us all."

She nodded again. “Yes, I suppose he did."

"So, I guess all I'm saying, ma'am, is I don't think you've ever had a black friend."

"That's not true,” she said at once, the words coming quickly. But it was a reflex response, Darryl knew, and at least she halted herself before getting out, “Some of my best friends are black."

Darryl decided not to challenge the statement directly; instead, he just let it pass as if he hadn't heard it—after all, on reflection, she had to know that he knew what she'd said wasn't true. “And so,” he continued, his tone even, “I'd like to be your first.” He held out his hand.

She looked at it for several seconds, as if not sure what to do. And then she lifted her own hand and took his. This surely, he thought, must be a memorable moment for her: as far as he'd been able to determine, one of the few times she'd ever shaken hands with a black man. And so, as he released her hand, and she returned hers to—no, not all the way to her lap, where it had been, but just to the arm rest between them—he let his mind search for the memory that had just been laid down, the one of that moment where his flesh had touched hers.

And he saw himself as she had coded him; of course, his mind couldn't help but impose his actual face on whatever cues she'd stored. But it wasn't himself that he was curious about, it was her thoughts, her feelings.

And they came to him. She'd been surprised by the feel of his hand, the roughness of his skin—and she'd been surprised, even though she'd noted such things before, by how light-colored his palm was. She'd also been surprised that he wore an analog watch—nothing to do with his skin color, and everything to do with his age; she'd expected all young people to wear digital ones if they bothered with a watch at all. He'd let go of her hand—and she'd noted him smiling at her. And, yes, she'd actually thought about whether to bring her hand all the way back to her lap, but, with a small effort of will, she'd stopped herself from doing that. And included with the memory, a part of it, a part of her, and now a part of him, were four small words.

That wasn't so bad.

It was a start.

* * * *

Chapter 31

Dr. Eric Redekop parked his Mercedes out front of the Bronze Shield, which was a much larger building than he'd expected it to be; Jan was used to its size, he guessed, and so her memories hadn't really encoded it as remarkable. He knew in a vague way that gaming was big business, but it still surprised him that the store was so large, and—

And it was closed! The front door was locked; he almost snapped the fingers off his hand in the cold yanking on the handle. He looked at the business hours; they didn't open until noon on Saturday. He blew out air, watching it form a cloud in front of him.

And then it hit him, a memory—the memory he needed. The store opened at noon, but the gaming room opened at 10:00 a.m., with players coming and going by the back door.

He looked left and right, recognized left, and headed that way, and—ah!—there it was, a door painted in a pinkish beige that his old pencil-crayon set had called, back in the days of easy racism, “flesh.” He closed the distance and pulled, gingerly this time, on the handle. But, crap, this door was locked, too.

Another memory came to him: you had to knock. He did.

About ten seconds later, a guy in his twenties with long greasy hair wearing a T-shirt depicting Robot Chicken (Jan knew it, even if he didn't) pushed the door open. Eric was prepared to have to explain himself, but the guy just held the door until Eric stepped into the large back room, which had five long tables set up with people seated around them, and—

And there she was: Janis Falconi.

Her back was to him, but there was no mistaking the tiger tattoo covering her left shoulder and continuing down her arm.

It was odd to be in a room that he'd never been in before and yet to know it. The washroom was over there, behind the door with the poster of The Incredible Hulk taped to it. The vending machine, next to it, was famous for running out of Diet Coke.

The guys sitting at Jan's table all had nicknames: Luckless, Bazinga (in truth, her brother Rudy), and Optimus Prime; even Jan didn't know the real name of the last of those.

She was laughing—he could hear her, and see her shoulders going up and down. He changed his position slightly so he could get just a glimpse of her profile; it was so good to see her being happy. He wondered if any of those she was playing with knew that this one day a month was just about the only time she was happy when she wasn't at work.

All the players seemed absorbed in what they were doing. At one table, they had boxes of donuts spread out. At another, some boisterous discussion was going on about something that had just happened in the game.

There were other chairs—metal-frame stacking ones with gray carpet-like upholstery, the kind you bought at Staples—stacked against the pale green wall. Several more tables whose legs had been folded up were leaning against the wall. Eric removed a chair from the stack and sat down, waiting for Jan's game to end; everyone was so intent on what they were doing, they simply ignored him. He pulled out his iPhone, flicked until the screen displaying the Kobo app was shown, tapped on it, and opened the new book he'd bought recently, the latest Jack McDevitt novel, and tried to lose himself in it, but—

But it all seemed so . . . so familiar. Granted, it was another installment in McDevitt's Alex Benedict series, but . . .

But that wasn't it. He'd read this already, and—No, no. Jan had read it. He scrolled through his list of books, looking for something else to read.

Suddenly, the D&D game at Jan's table was over. Bazinga was leaning back in his chair, chatting animatedly with Luckless. Optimus Prime was putting away all the polyhedral dice and lead miniatures. Jan stood and picked up her chair, ready to add it to a stack against the wall, and, as she turned, she saw Eric, and her eyes went wide and her mouth dropped open into a perfect O. She came over to him. “Eric, what are you doing here?"

Others were milling about as they put chairs away. Bazinga and Luckless came near, carrying the table they'd been using over to the wall.

He didn't know if this was the right moment—didn't know if there'd ever be the right moment—didn't want to shatter the happiness she seemed to be feeling just now. “Umm, Jan, can I speak to you for a moment?"

Her eyebrows went up, but she nodded. He led her across the room, over to near the door with the Hulk on it.

"Yes?” she prodded.

He took a deep breath, then: “There's a women's shelter in Bethesda. They'll take you in, give you counseling, protect you. And I'll help you get a lawyer."

She started slowly shaking her head. “I can't."

"Can't what? Can't leave him? Jan, I know he hits you. I know what happened last night."

"Eric—Dr. Redekop—it's none of your business."

"I wish that were so, but I can't stop reading your memories."

"That doesn't give you the right to change things,” she said.

Eric tilted his head. “I'm not trying to change things; I'm trying to help."

"I don't need help,” Jan said.

Another memory of Tony yelling at her came to him: You think you can just leave me? You're a fucking addict! I tell them that and you'll never work as a nurse again.

"He can't ruin your career,” said Eric. “There are treatment programs—you know that. I'll see you get the help you need."

Jan was trembling. “You should go,” she said softly.

"No,” said Eric. “We should go. Jan, please, let me help."

Luckless came over to them. “Everything all right?” he asked, then, looking at Eric: “Who are you?"

Eric looked at him, pissed off, but Jan's memories came rushing in. Luckless knew all about Tony's treatment of Janis. He was interested in her—hell, all of the guys here were interested in her—but although Janis had literally cried on his shoulder more than once, Luckless had never taken advantage of her being despondent; Eric had to give him points for that.

"I'm Eric Redekop."

Luckless's eyes went wide. “You're the guy who saved Jerrison."

"I work with Jan,” Eric said simply.

"Whatcha doing here?"

Eric looked at Janis then back at Luckless. It wasn't violating a confidence; Luckless knew Tony was abusive. “I want to take her to a women's shelter."

And suddenly he knew things about Luckless, including why he was called that: it didn't just have to do with his unerring ability to get the wrong numbers to come up on the dice, but also with his sad history of going to work for small computing companies that folded almost as soon as he'd been hired; he had been out of work for eight months now.

Luckless looked at Jan. “You should do it,” he said.

Someone was knocking on the outside door. The same fellow who'd opened the door earlier for Eric opened it again and—

Oh, shit.

Eric's stomach knotted and he tasted bile at the back of his throat.

He'd never seen him in the flesh before, but he knew him at once. Hair buzzed short, jug ears, brown eyes, and a long thin face. There was no doubt: it was Tony. But what the hell was he doing here?

Eric never paid any attention to clothing; without looking down, he couldn't say what clothes he himself was wearing right now. But Jan did, and what Tony was wearing now was doubtless what he'd also been wearing earlier this morning when he'd left the house. Eric concentrated on the clothes: a red plaid work shirt with a sky-blue T-shirt underneath visible through the open collar of the other shirt, and denim jeans, but brown not blue, and—

And it came to him: Jan's memories of this morning. A tense conversation with Tony over breakfast. Tony saying the job site he was going to be at today was only a few blocks from the Bronze Shield, so he'd drop her off . . . and come by to join them for lunch. What Tony presumably hadn't seen, because Jan had fought so hard to hide it, was her disappointment at this. She'd wanted to say please don't come; she'd wanted to say it was her one time out a month; she wanted to say they were her friends; she even wanted to say that none of them liked him—because, of course, most of them had previously seen the way she deflated in his presence. But she hadn't said any of that; she'd just nodded meekly and gone back to eating her Rice Krispies—a taste that came now to Eric, one he himself hadn't experienced since childhood.

Eric thought about leaving; after all, there'd be other opportunities to get Jan to the shelter. But seeing Tony triggered more memories.

Of him screaming.

Of him throwing a can of soup at her.

Of him berating her for the house being a mess.

Of him choking her during sex.

And he was going to drink again tonight; he was doubtless going to get drunk.

Meaning he would hit her again tonight.

And Eric could not let that happen. He took a deep breath, then: “Jan, let's go."

"Go where?” demanded Tony, crossing over to stand near Jan.

Eric looked him straight in the eyes—in the small, mean-spirited eyes. “To where she'll be safe."

Jan's gaming group had formed a sparse semicircle around them now, and people at the other tables, where games were still being played, had started looking up.

Jan looked at Eric with pleading eyes. “Please, Eric. Go home. You're just making things—"

He turned to her. “Worse? How could they possibly be worse?” He felt his arms shaking. Damn it! He truly hated confrontations, although normally he could handle himself well enough during them. But every time he looked at Tony, he had another flashback to him humiliating or abusing or ignoring Jan, and it was making him livid. He spread his arms a bit, indicating the people around them. “I don't want to violate Jan's privacy, but—"

"But what?” demanded Tony.

"But I'm linked to Jan; I know what she knows. And I know everything you've ever done to her."

Tony narrowed his eyes. “Linked?” He wheeled on Janis. “That shit that was on the news? You didn't tell me you were part of that."

"It doesn't matter,” Janis said meekly.

Tony looked at Eric, but he was still speaking to Jan. “He can read your mind?"

"My memories, yes,” said Jan, staring down at the hardwood floor.

Tony's eyes were tracking left and right, as if reviewing his past with Janis. His mouth dropped open a bit, showing yellow teeth.

Eric crossed his arms in front of his chest. “That's right,” he said. “Her memories—of you.” Eric watched Tony's face with a mixture of interest and disgust. It was almost as if Tony had discovered that what he'd thought had been done in private had really been recorded by security cameras. He briefly looked like a trapped animal. But then he rallied some inner strength. “None of that matters,” he said defiantly. “She's my wife."

"Only if she wants to be,” said Eric, trying to keep his tone even.

"She's my wife!” Tony said again, as if that were sufficient justification for everything he'd done.

Eric couldn't take looking at him any longer. He shifted his gaze back to Jan. “Come with me,” he said.

"If you do,” Tony said to Janis, “you know what'll happen."

"No,” said Eric. “It won't. We'll get her help for that. She'll keep her job."

Tony's face did an odd dance of expressions—he was still coming to grips with the notion that Eric had some special insight; Tony had clearly intended his threat just now to be a private one.

Jan looked at some of the other faces—the gamers, her friends, her hapless brother, the people she saw once a month. And as Eric followed her gaze, memories of them came to him, too. Tony didn't show up often, it was true, but most of them had met him before. Of course, what they'd said to Jan might not be what they really felt; Eric himself had made plenty of polite noises over the years about friends’ and colleagues’ spouses, and—

And Optimus Prime spoke up. He was thin, pencil-necked, in his late twenties, with pale white skin and reddish-blond hair. “Go with him,” he said, indicating Eric with a movement of his head.

Jan shook her head, ever so slightly, and Tony snapped, “Shut up!"

But Optimus Prime stood his ground. “Jan, it's your turn—and it's your best move."

"Stay out of this, asshole!” Tony said.

It was Jan's move, Eric knew, but he couldn't keep quiet. “Jan,” he said, “choose to be safe."

"You're going to regret this,” Tony said through clenched teeth.

"No,” said Eric. “She's not.” He looked at her. “Jan?"

The tableau held for perhaps fifteen seconds, although Eric's pulse, pounding in his ears, was too accelerated to be a reliable timekeeper. And then Jan took a deep breath and started walking toward the door.

Tony surged forward and grabbed her arm, the one with the intricate tattoo of a tiger. And that did it—contact, the grip, right where he'd bruised her before. “Don't!” snapped Jan. “Don't you dare touch me."

Tony's eyes went wide. No memories came to Eric; Janis had never spoken to her husband like that before. She continued marching forward, and Eric fell in next to her. He still had his coat on, and she grabbed her coat and her purse, both of which were by the door.

"Jan,” said Tony, pleading now. “I—I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry. Things will be different."

Janis turned around, and for a second Eric thought she was changing her mind, but then he realized the truth: she wanted to see Tony like this, remember his face at the moment he lost her—a memory to savor, a memory for all time. No words were necessary, and she said none. Instead, she just turned, and Eric opened the heavy door for her, and they headed out into the November day. Eric was so pumped with adrenaline that he didn't feel the chill at all, but Jan soon started shivering—as much, he suspected, from emotional turmoil as from the cold. This time he did put his arm around her shoulders, and they walked toward his car.

* * * *

Chapter 32

Security at LAX was the most stringent Darryl had ever seen—after all, it had only been eleven days since an al-Sajada operative had been arrested in a parking lot here with one of those hexagonal bombs in his trunk. Still, as a Secret Service agent, Darryl could see dozens of holes in the procedures.

Once they got out of the secure area, they were greeted by a uniformed limousine driver holding a sign that said “Hudkins"—which was a first for Darryl, who was much more used to running alongside limos than riding in them.

Bessie and Darryl sat in the back, separated from the driver by a pane of smoked glass. Darryl suspected Bessie was thinking that in the good old days, it would have been the black man driving the white man, not the other way around. And speaking of the other way around, why did it have to be him reading her—or why couldn't Obama have still been in office, if she were destined to read the president's memories?

The limo took them through the Los Angeles traffic all the way out to Burbank. It had been years since Darryl had visited L.A., and he'd forgotten how horrible the congestion was, but Bessie was thrilled to catch a glimpse of the Hollywood sign high above the city. When they arrived at their destination, they had to go through more security—this with even more holes—handing photo ID through the car window to the gate guard. Darryl was stunned at how time-consuming and inefficient the process of getting in here was; he thought of five easy ways he could have gotten past the guards.

He'd never been on a studio lot before, and he hadn't known much about corporate mergers, but apparently Disney owned ABC Studios, and so, in addition to traditional Disney fare, lots of sitcoms and adult dramas were produced here. The sound stages were giant cubical buildings the color of cheese with huge billboards for ABC or Disney programming on their sides—who knew that Chadwick's Place was still in production?

The driver hopped out of the car and held the rear door open for Bessie. Darryl got out from his side, and a brown-haired white woman in her mid-twenties came driving up to them in a golf cart; the driver had called her to let her know they'd arrived.

"Hello,” the woman said. “I'm Megan; I'm the assistant to Jessika Borsiczky. Won't you come with me?” She drove them down a series of paved paths between buildings and past some giant trucks until they came to the entrance to one of the stages. A sign on the door said, “Do Not Enter When Red Light Is Flashing.” But it wasn't—and so they did.

They walked along a narrow space between the wall of the stage and the plywood backs of whatever set was on the other side. Giant black cables ran along the floor, and they occasionally had to squeeze against the wall to let people pass in the other direction; it was a long, arduous journey for Bessie. Finally, they came to the end of the plywood, and Megan turned. Craft-services tables—Darryl was pleased with himself for knowing that term—were spread out in front of them, covered with coffee urns, plates of sandwiches and pastries, and wicker bowls full of packaged snacks. A couple of people were standing by the table, chatting softly. They walked on, and came to more plywood, but this wall was curved . . .

They continued around to the other side, and there it was:

The Oval Office.

Granted, it was a reconstruction, but except for the fact that it had an overhead grid of lights instead of a ceiling, it was perfect. And, Darryl supposed, it pretty much had to be: over the years, most Americans had seen countless pictures of the real Oval Office and had a good sense of what it had looked like before it had been destroyed. The Secret Service agent in him thought it ridiculous that the room the president had spent most of his waking hours in had been so publicly documented: its location, its exact dimensions, its every nook and cranny. But it had been, and this was a near-perfect duplicate. He wasn't surprised, though; lots of people in Washington loved Inside the Beltway, calling it the most accurate White House drama since The West Wing.

A smile broke out on Darryl's face. Here he was thinking about the set, when right there in front of him, sitting behind a flawless reproduction of the Resolute desk, was Courtney B. Vance, who starred as President Maxwell Doncaster. Vance was one of Darryl's favorite actors; Darryl had been thrilled when he'd won an NAACP Image Award earlier this year. He was looking off in the distance, apparently waiting for something.

"They'll be breaking for lunch in just a minute,” Megan said.

"Can we do one more, Courtney?” asked a woman's voice; from this angle, Darryl couldn't see the speaker.

Vance nodded. He picked up the phone on the desk and spoke into the mouthpiece. “Get me the Russian president right away,” he said, “and if he's not awake, wake him!” He slammed the phone down, and, in what the scriptwriters had doubtless written as “off the president's determined expression,” the shot came to an end.

"Perfect,” said the woman's voice. “All right, everyone, that's lunch!"

"Is it okay if we go onto the set now?” Darryl asked Megan.

Bessie, who looked more excited than Darryl had ever seen her, said, “And can I meet Mr. Vance?"

Megan smiled. “Of course.” Vance was just getting out from behind the desk. “Come with me."

Bessie looked like she was going to burst. Darryl followed her.

"Courtney,” said Megan, after they'd closed the distance, “this is Mrs. Stilwell and Mr. Hudkins—Mr. Hudkins is a real Secret Service agent."

Vance was gallant. He took Bessie's hand gently in his and said, “A pleasure to meet you, ma'am.” Darryl smiled: two handshakes from African Americans in one day; it probably was a record for Bessie. Vance then took Darryl's hand, and shook it much more firmly. “Agent Hudkins, what an honor, sir."

"Thank you,” said Darryl.

"Are you here consulting on the show?” Vance asked.

"Not exactly."

"Well, I hope you enjoy your visit."

Megan must have heard a cue in that. “Mr. Vance has only a short time for lunch, and he has to do a wardrobe change before he comes back, so if you'll forgive him . . ."

Vance smiled and moved off. Having an African-American president had become a cliché in movies and TV before Barack Obama had ever come to office. Darryl had enjoyed the joke that had been everywhere when Obama had been elected: “A black president? Crap, that means the Earth is about to be hit by an asteroid!” But he could tell that Bessie had been genuinely thrilled to meet Vance; then again, blacks as entertainers had always been welcomed, even by bigots.

Although he'd shown it to her repeatedly before, Darryl again fished out the picture he'd been carrying of Leon Hexley, the director of the Secret Service. The print was a still frame from security-camera footage taken on the day in question; Hexley had on a dark blue suit and a tie much more colorful than any he would have let his subordinates wear.

Bessie squinted as she studied it, then she nodded, and started to explore the set. There were cameras they had to walk around, but the rest of it was uncannily like the real thing. The lighting wasn't quite right, though—it was brighter than the real Oval. And the translight visible through the window was not exactly the view one got from the president's window—which, of course, made sense: the photographer who had taken the image probably had done so from out on the Ellipse.

Darryl was fond of the movie Working Girl, and particularly liked the ending, because he loved Carly Simon singing “Let the River Run.” When he was young, you could count on seeing that movie every few months on TV, but nobody showed it anymore; Melanie Griffith's character had worked in the World Trade Center, and the movie ended with a pullout of her in her office fading into a loving long shot of the Twin Towers—it was just unbearably sad to watch now.

He wondered how the writers for Inside the Beltway were going to deal with the loss of the White House; would it continue to exist in their series? That, too, would probably be unbearably sad to see.

Darryl watched as Bessie slowly circumnavigated the room, looking at things that might jog her memory: the portrait of George Washington over the mantel at the north end flanked by potted Swedish ivy (a tradition that went back to the Kennedy administration), the bronze horse sculptures, the grandfather clock, the Norman Rockwell painting of the Statue of Liberty, the two high-back chairs in front of the fireplace, the coffee table, and the presidential seal in the carpet.

But Bessie kept shaking her head. Darryl was tired—it had been a long day already—and so he decided to sit in the one place he'd never been able to in the real Oval: the president's red-leather chair behind the Resolute desk.

"Anything?” said Darryl. “Ignore the cameras; ignore the cables."

"Not yet."

Darryl blew out air and looked around the room, and—

And of course he spotted it at once, although a casual visitor—or viewer!—would miss it altogether: the plain panel that was the door to the president's private study, just east of the Oval Office.

Darryl walked over to it. It had no handle, and it popped open when one pressed against it, just like the real thing had.

"Jerrison was here,” Darryl said. “He came through this door into the Oval Office from his study."

Bessie shuffled over to be next to Darryl. He motioned for her to go into the study and he sidled along the curving wall of the Oval Office so she could look back through the hidden doorway without having him, an extraneous element, as part of her view.

"Anything?” called Darryl. “Think about Jerrison in that room, walking through that door, finding Leon Hexley standing here, his back to the president at first, talking on his BlackBerry, and saying . . . what?"

"I don't know,” said Bessie. “There are so many memories of this place, and of meetings here with Mr. Hexley. To find the precise one you want . . ."

"It was Wednesday, about four in the afternoon. Hexley said, ‘Tell Gordo to aim’ . . .?” He let the unfinished sentence float in the air, hoping she'd fill in the rest.

She shook her head but repeated, “Tell Gordo to aim” out loud five times, each time in a slightly different way—and finally her voice brightened. “He said, ‘Tell Gordo to aim 4-2-4-7-4 the echo.’”

Darryl scrambled for a pen and paper. There was a pad with the presidential seal on the desk, and a fountain pen in a fancy stand. He desperately hoped it was a real pen, and not a nonfunctional prop—and it was. He quickly wrote out what Bessie had said.

"Are you sure?” he said. “Are you positive?"

"That's what he said, all right,” Bessie replied. “He must have heard the president then because he stopped talking and turned around. What does it mean?"

Darryl shook his head. “I don't know. But let's hope to God someone does."

* * * *

Chapter 33

Eric Redekop and Janis Falconi got into Eric's maroon Mercedes, out front of the Bronze Shield. He buckled up and waited for her to do so, then gently said, “You're doing the right thing, Jan. The shelter is open even on weekends. We'll have no trouble getting you in."

"No,” replied Jan softly.

Eric had his hand on the ignition key. “Sorry?"

"Don't take me to a shelter."

"You need help, Jan. You need support."

"Tomorrow, maybe. But not today. You can't just abandon me."

Whatever they were going to do, sitting outside the gaming store wasn't prudent. Jan's husband might come after them, after all. Eric turned the key and drove, heading nowhere in particular. “Okay,” he said. “Let's get some lunch, then. Do you like—” But merely thinking the question was enough to know the answer. She loved Italian food; memories of her at various restaurants popped into his head. “There's a great Italian place not far from here."

"Thanks,” Jan said.

They drove in silence for a time; the roads weren't busy on a normal Saturday, and were even more sparsely filled today.

"You're recalling my memories,” Jan said. “Right now. Aren't you?"

Eric nodded. He was trying not to do it, but they came anyway.

"You know I like you,” she said. He was keeping his eyes on the road but was aware that she had turned her head and was looking at him.

"Yes,” he said softly.

"And I thought, before all this craziness,” she said, “that perhaps you liked me."

"Yes,” he said again, signaling a turn.

"But that was before,” she said. She was quiet for another block, and so was he, but then she asked, “What about now?"

And that was the question, Eric realized. It was one thing to know someone on the outside, but to know them on the inside! He'd never known anyone but himself this well before. He knew what her childhood had been like. A memory came to him of her at maybe eight years old, unable to sleep, coming down to the kitchen in her family's little house and telling her mother that she was scared about dying, and her mom comforting her and saying that everyone dies eventually, but it would be a long, long time before either of them did.

And he knew what she'd been like at college, including the one and only time she'd cheated on a test, desperate to get into nursing school.

And he knew what she'd been like on her wedding day, walking down the aisle, thinking, This is the biggest mistake of my life—but being too afraid of making a scene to put a halt to the whole damn thing.

He knew it all. And she was right to wonder what effect that had on his perception of her.

The car rolled on; shops and restaurants passed by.

And the answer came to him. Not from his mind and not from hers—but from his heart.

He did still like her.

He liked her a lot.

But . . .

"Jan,” he said. “I'm a doctor. I can't . . ."

"Can't what?” she replied. “Get involved with a patient? I'm not your patient, Eric."

She was right. “True."

"And, yes, you're older than me, but I like older men."

He thought about this; she did indeed. “Ah."

"Or,” she said, “is it that you can't get involved with a nurse? Because, like, this would be the first time in history that has ever happened."

He smiled and drove on.

* * * *

Susan Dawson was waiting down in the lobby of Luther Terry for Paul to show up. They'd been dating for six months, and he'd had a key to her place for the last three. He had kindly gone there to pick up a change of clothes for her.

And there he was! She ran over and hugged him, holding on tighter than usual; she surprised herself by how much she needed the contact, needed the stability.

When they separated, he gently swept her hair away from her face. “You managing okay?"

"Yeah,” she replied. “You?"

He lifted his shoulders slightly, and tipped his head toward the glass doors leading out of the lobby, leading back to the crazy world outside. “As well as anyone, I suppose. Couldn't sleep last night."

She nodded. “Me, neither."

He had a big cloth bag with him. In addition to a dark suit and white blouse, he'd also brought along her red ski jacket, since the blood-soaked jacket she'd used yesterday was too horrific to wear.

She desperately wanted to have a coffee with him at the Starbucks here in the lobby, but her BlackBerry vibrated. She pulled it out and read the message from Darryl. Bessie Stilwell had remembered what Leon Hexley had said. Darryl had typed it in, but the words and numbers didn't make any sense to Susan. Still, she was delighted that the memory had been recovered.

Darryl's message noted that they were going to take a military jet back. Susan thought about texting that Jerrison had wanted them to take civilian flights, but then, now that she thought about it, he'd actually only said to make sure they flew to L.A. on a commercial plane; he hadn't said anything about the return, and—

"Everything okay?” Paul asked, indicating her BlackBerry.

She looked up and smiled at him. He worked in security at the Smithsonian; they often went jogging together on the Mall. “Yes, baby—it's fine. But I gotta go.” She quickly kissed him and headed out of the lobby, taking the bag he'd brought. She went by Singh's office, which was empty—the Canadian was down the hall in his lab—and quickly changed into the fresh clothes, feeling a little more civilized for having done so. She then took a yellow pad—this one had some of Kadeem's doodles on the top sheet, which she tore off—and wrote out in big letters the words and numbers Bessie had remembered Hexley saying. Then she hurried back down to visit the president.

When the lockdown had ended yesterday, she'd sent a number of the Secret Service agents who had been here home, and ordered others to come take their places. The two on duty out front of Prospector's door were ones she'd had transferred from the detail that looked after visiting dignitaries—in other words, ones who would never normally have direct access to the president, and thus were less likely to be involved in any conspiracy against him. She'd also had two FBI agents brought in, and they were there as well—watching the watchers.

* * * *

"Hello, may I please speak to Maria Ramirez?"

"Speaking."

"This is—"

"Hello, Professor Singh."

"Is my voice that distinctive?"

"I'm afraid so, Professor. Is there—is something wrong?"

"No, no. But I have a question, if I may."

"Si."

"You can read the memories of Darryl Hudkins, one of the Secret Service agents, correct?"

"Si."

"Do you recall him meeting anyone . . . interesting, shall we say, today?"

"No."

"Are you sure, Maria?"

"Nothing comes to mind."

"An actor, perhaps . . .?"

"Oh! Si! Qué emocionante! Darryl is in Hollywood, no? And he met Courtney B. Vance!"

"Yes, he did."

"But . . . but why is this important?"

"Just confirming something. It proves that the links remain intact even over distances of thousands of kilometers."

"Dios mio!"

"My thought exactly."

* * * *

Seth Jerrison's previous nurse Sheila had been replaced by one named Kelly. He liked her better. She wasn't as stern, and she laughed at his little jokes. Earlier, she'd read him the most recent batch of get-well-soon and sympathy messages from foreign leaders, and she was now rearranging the vast collection of flowers that had been placed on a table by the window; they were a tiny fraction of those that had been delivered to the hospital since the shooting.

The press had been making noises about a transfer of power under the Twenty-Fifth while Seth was recuperating. Seth would be damned if he'd let that happen; this was a time of crisis and he intended to lead. He'd insisted on being given another stimulant half an hour ago, and he was feeling if not chipper at least more alert and energetic than he had when he woke up.

The door to the room opened, and in came Susan Dawson. “Pay dirt,” she said.

"Kelly, will you excuse us?” Seth asked.

The nurse nodded. “I'll be just outside."

"That's fine."

Susan took the vinyl-covered chair next to Seth's bed and she held up a lined yellow notepad so he could see it. “Yes, yes!” he said once. “That's it—that's it exactly. ‘Tell Gordo to aim 4-2-4-7-4 the echo.’”

"The ‘aim’ part is certainly suspicious,” Susan said. “But it's not conclusive."

"True,” Seth said. “Call it in to the NSA decoding desk; see what they make of it."

Susan nodded and took a minute to do that. When she was off the phone, Seth motioned for her to show him the sheet again. “What do you make of the ‘4-2-4-7-4’ bit?” he asked.

"Forty-two thousand four hundred and seventy-four,” said Susan. “Does that mean anything to you?"

"No."

"It's not some sort of reference to you? Maybe your old ZIP code or something?” She pulled out her BlackBerry and went to the USPS site. “Huh,” she said. “It's not a valid ZIP code. Well, maybe that first ‘four’ isn't the number. Maybe its, um, the . . ."

"Preposition,” Seth provided

"Right. Maybe it's ‘aim for 2-4-7-4.’”

"Well, 2-4-7-4 doesn't mean anything to me. But if the second ‘four’ is also the preposition—aim for 2-4-7 for the echo—then maybe it's a time. You know, 2:47?"

"But surely you'd say ‘two-forty-seven,’ then. And, besides, you were shot in the morning."

"What about 24/7—you know, seven days a week?"

"But he said ‘two-four,’ not ‘twenty-four.’”

Seth frowned. “And what's this about echoing?"

"That is strange. Danbury shot you from inside the Lincoln Memorial. With all that marble around him, it was bound to echo loudly no matter when he took the shot."

"'Echo,'” Seth said. “Suppose it's not the word; suppose it's the phonetic alphabet. You know: alpha, bravo, um . . ."

"Charlie,” said Susan, “delta, echo."

"Right. So maybe it stands for something that begins with E."

"Executive?” offered Susan. “Execute? Eliminate?"

Seth's heart pounded—which hurt like hell. “God,” he said.

"What is it?"

"Two-four-seven. They add up to thirteen."

"Yes. So?"

He hesitated. Did he really want to reveal the 13 Code to a Secret Service agent? But, of course, in this day of RSA encryption, no one except school kids bothered with simple substitution ciphers. He took a moment to explain how his code worked and talked her through writing up the conversion table on her yellow pad so she could see what he meant:

A=C E=I M=T

B=D F=J N=U

G=K O=V

H=L P=W

Q=X

R=Y

S=Z

"There,” he said, when she was done. “A decryption table for the key 2-4-7."

Susan looked at him like he was crazy. Seth nodded sagely. “They called me mad at the university."

She smiled. “I'm sure they did, sir."

* * * *

Chapter 34

After leaving Professor Singh's lab, Ivan Tarasov had intended to simply get through his day, trying to think of nothing but his duties as a security guard here at the hospital. He was good at his job, and he liked its repetitive quality: at this time, walk down this corridor, check that the doors to these rooms were properly locked, and—

And there he was. Ivan caught sight of Josh Latimer walking toward him. Seeing him, even from a distance, brought back a flood of Dora's memories, including the awkward call, months ago, when he'd phoned her—him here in Washington, her over in London, the father who had missed all her school plays and her move to England and her wedding and even the funeral of her mother, calling up to make sure he'd tracked down the right Dora, checking that her maiden name had been Latimer, that she'd been born in Maryland, that her birthday was August 6, and then, once he was sure, explaining that he was her long-lost father, and arranging to come visit her for a face-to-face meeting. And in a little restaurant off Piccadilly Circus, after they'd each tried to compress three decades of life into an hour, he told her why he'd sought her out, and what he needed from her.

Memories of what had happened after they'd parted came to him, too. Of her talking it over with her doctor, her best friend Mandy, and her minister, and ultimately deciding she had to do this; she couldn't deny him.

Latimer was wearing a green hospital gown but blue jeans underneath. As Ivan watched, he turned and entered a room. Ivan's own path took him by the same room, and suddenly he found himself pushing the door open, entering, and closing the door behind him.

Latimer was sitting in the chair by his bed. Across the street, through the window, George Washington University's Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis dorm was visible. Latimer looked up, clearly startled to see a security guard entering.

Ivan felt his blood boiling; the mere sight of Latimer infuriated him. “How could you?” Ivan demanded.

Latimer frowned. “What?"

"After what you did to Dora, to ask her to let herself be cut open for you, to give a piece of her own body to you—how could you?"

Latimer groped on the table next to his chair for his eyeglasses, unfolded them, and put them on. “I don't know you,” he said. “And you don't know me. The person reading my memories is a woman—a nurse. Janis something."

"Falconi,” said Ivan, nodding; he knew the names of all the nurses and doctors here. “I'm not reading you. I'm reading your daughter Dora."

Latimer said nothing.

"You're thinking she can't possibly remember—because if she did, she'd never have agreed to help you. And maybe she doesn't remember. But I do."

"I don't know what you're talking about,” said Latimer.

That further infuriated Ivan. “Don't lie to me,” he said, moving closer. “Don't you dare lie to me."

"What are you going to do?” asked Latimer.

"I'm going to tell Dora,” Ivan said. “She deserves to know."

"You can't,” said Latimer, rising now.

"Oh?” said Ivan, turning now to exit, and—

Sound, movement, a tugging, and—

And Latimer grabbed the gun out of Ivan's holster. Ivan spun around and saw the pistol aimed at his chest. “I'll die without that transplant,” Latimer said. “You're going to keep your mouth shut—about everything."

"Or what?” asked Ivan, proud of himself for managing to briefly meet Latimer's gaze.

"Or I'll shoot you,” said Latimer.

"You'll go to jail."

"Wanna bet? I was just talking to that guy Gillett, the lawyer. He said this was the perfect time to do something crazy, because any competent attorney could get you off. Scrambled brains? Other people's memories? No one's fault. It's carte fucking blanche."

"No judge is going to buy that,” said Ivan.

"No?” said Latimer, waving the gun. “You came in here threatening me. There was a struggle; I got your gun and it went off. Simple as that . . ."

* * * *

After leaving President Jerrison, Susan headed up to four, and was surprised to see that Orrin Gillett was still in the building. “What are you still doing here?"

"I had an appointment with Josh Latimer,” he replied.

"Oh? And does he want to prevent Singh from severing the links, too?"

"Well, no. But that wasn't why I was seeing him. I'm representing him in his action against this hospital, related to his aborted kidney transplant."

"I heard they rescheduled that for Monday,” Susan said.

"Be that as it may,” said Gillett. “My client has suffered enormously. And I might as well tell you that we'll want to question you in relation to that."

Susan blew out air and rubbed her eyes. “I am so tired,” she said. “I'm tired of all of this. I just want it to be over—and you aren't making it any easier, you and Rachel Cohen, with your demand that Singh not sever the links."

"We do have rights, Agent Dawson."

"So do the other people who were affected,” said Susan, “myself included. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few."

"This isn't Star Trek,” Gillett said. “Individuals have individual rights."

"Who are you linked to again?"

"A security guard here."

"Oh, right,” said Susan. “Ivan Tarasov. Well, I can tell you that he came to see Singh earlier this morning, and he wants the exact opposite: he wants the links severed as quickly as possible."

Gillett frowned, presumably recalling this. “So he did. And I do understand he's having a rough time; I'm truly glad the links are only—what did Singh call it? First-order. I'd hate to be seeing what Ivan is seeing, and—fuck!"

"What?"

"I just recalled one of his memories. Ivan with my client, Josh Latimer, and—Jesus!"

"What?"

Gillett considered for a moment. “He's my client, but—damn. I can't let him do this. Josh grabbed the guard's gun and has it aimed at him."

"What? When? When's that memory from?"

"Today. Sometime since I left Josh—so, the past fifteen minutes."

"What room are they in?"

"I don't know. I met Josh in the waiting area over there, but his room is somewhere on this floor."

Susan spoke into her sleeve. “Dawson to Central. I need to know the room number for Josh Latimer, a patient here at Lima Tango."

"Two secs, Sue,” said the voice in her ear. Then: “Room 411."

"I need backup in that room,” Susan said as she started running. She read the room numbers: 419, 417, 415, 413, and—

She unholstered her SIG P229, holding it in two hands vertically beside her face, then kicked open the door to 411.

"Drop it!” Susan barked, taking in the scene. Latimer must have heard the pounding footfalls: he had his left arm around Tarasov's neck, pulling him back against himself in the classic hostage-taking stance. The gun—a .38, Sue saw—was aimed at Tarasov's right temple.

"I said drop it!” Susan said again. If Latimer had been aiming at a protectee, there'd be no question; she'd have already taken him out. But she thought she might be able to talk Latimer out of this. Susan was blocking the only exit. She could hear sounds of panic in the corridor; her entry into Latimer's room had not been subtle. She stepped fully into the room and with a backward kick, sent the door swinging shut behind her. A voice in her earpiece said, “Backup is on the way."

"You're not giving me any choice, Mr. Latimer,” Susan said. “Drop the gun."

"And what?” said Latimer.

"We just forget about all this."

"Forget,” repeated Latimer, as if it were the punch line to a joke. “That's the whole fucking problem, isn't it? Nobody can forget anything."

"Just put down the gun,” Susan said.

Ivan Tarasov had been motionless, a statue, during all of this, although Susan could see that his forehead was glistening and his eyes were showing white all around.

"Everything was going fine,” Latimer said. “I'd found my daughter."

And then Tarasov spoke. Susan thought he was going to plead for his life, but he didn't. “You know what he did,” Tarasov said to Susan. “I told you."

"Tarasov!” Susan snapped. “Shut up!"

"He molested his daughter,” Tarasov said. “You know that."

"You don't know anything,” Latimer said. “You can't prove any of it."

"She may not remember, but I do,” said Tarasov. “I'll testify against you."

"Shut up!” Susan barked. “Latimer, it'll be okay. No one is going to accept linked memories in court; there's no case law to support using them as evidence. Put the gun down, and we all walk away from this."

"He's going to tell Dora,” Latimer said. “He's going to ruin everything."

Tarasov twisted now against Latimer's grip. “She deserves to know."

"Don't!” said Latimer and Susan simultaneously, and Susan added, “Damn it, Tarasov, shut up and let me protect you."

"Like you protected Jerrison?” Tarasov said. “You have no idea what I'm seeing right now! Right now! The horrible things that little girl saw—the things that he did to her!"

Before this, Latimer had relaxed his grip a bit and had let the gun lower slightly, but now, in that slow-motion that happens in times of real crisis, Susan saw him lifting the pistol, closing his grip, and moving his finger, and—

Blam!

Susan felt herself being slammed backward—

Oh my God!

—by the recoil of her own gun.

There'd been no way to hit Latimer in the chest; Tarasov's torso was covering it. And so she'd shot Latimer just above the right eye, blowing that side of his head open, blood and bone flying.

Latimer's blood splattered across the side of Tarasov's face. The security guard looked as though he was unsure who'd been hit, and Latimer—

Latimer's eyes were still open—wide, wide open—and tracking; his mouth opened as if to say something. Susan looked for an opportunity to get another shot off, but then Latimer collapsed, falling backward to the floor.

Tarasov wheeled around and recovered his gun.

Susan's heart was pounding ferociously. She had trained for this, and trained for it, and trained for it—but she'd never killed a man before. Her hand was shaking as she reholstered her own weapon.

Tarasov moved partway across the room and found a chair; he dropped himself into it, and put his blood-spattered head in his hands.

Susan lifted her arm to speak into her wrist microphone, but it wasn't necessary. The door to the room was kicked open, and two agents, guns out, appeared at either side of it. They quickly surveyed the situation then entered.

"Sue,” said one of the agents while the other one rushed over to Latimer's fallen form. “What went down?"

Susan looked at them then and at the ruined side of Josh Latimer's head, lying now in a widening pool of blood. She found herself unable to speak as she groped for a chair.

* * * *

Chapter 35

After they'd had lunch, Eric Redekop had taken Janis Falconi to his luxury condo, which was just a few blocks from LT, overlooking the Potomac. Jan was amazed. She knew top surgeons made a lot of money, but she'd never quite realized how much; Eric's place was gorgeous, with a sumptuous marble entryway. He gave her a quick tour: separate kitchen and dining room, two full bathrooms, and four bedrooms. He used one as an office, another as a TV room, and a third was set up as a bedroom for when his son Quentin visited; Quentin was twenty-one, and was studying genetics at UC Berkeley. They came out to the living room, which opened on a wide balcony and had pristine white walls, a white leather couch, and a matching chair. Janis opened her mouth to say something complimentary, and—

And she heard a deafening sound, like a car backfiring right beside her, and she had a brief flash of—well, of light, and she saw the face of a woman. An “Ooof!” came out of her as she staggered backward.

"Jan?” said Eric wheeling around.

Agony. More pain than she'd ever felt—ever thought she could feel.

Jan reached out with her right arm, flailing for something to grab on to, but found nothing. She tumbled backward, falling to the hardwood floor.

"Jan!” shouted Eric, dropping onto one knee next to her. He touched her wrist, feeling for a pulse.

The pain continued to shoot through her; it wasn't localized—it was everywhere. She couldn't focus or turn her head. She thought—as much as she could think anything through the agony—that perhaps she was having a heart attack.

"Jan, what is it?” asked Eric. “Where does it hurt?"

With a massive effort, and although it felt like her neck was snapping to do so, she managed to turn her head to face him, but—

But her vision was receding into a long tunnel, and the person at the end of the tunnel was—well, she didn't know who it was, but it wasn't Eric. The face she saw there, in the distance, was terrified, and—

She felt herself being lifted up in Eric's arms, and he carried her a short distance and set her down—ah, it must be on the white leather couch she'd been admiring a few moments before. But she couldn't see it; all she could see was the tunnel—and it was narrowing. And yet she knew she wasn't dead: her pulse was pounding in her ears.

Eric was holding her hand and feeling her forehead. The tunnel was constricting even more, and there were colored forms running past her peripheral vision. People. Faces. An old man. An even older woman. A little girl.

Events. Snowboarding. Riding a dirt bike. Scuba diving. None of which she'd ever done . . .

And—thank God!—the pain was abating, fading, dissipating. The images were being replaced by a pure, bright, brilliant light, absolutely white, brighter than the sun but not at all uncomfortable to look at.

Her pulse was fading in her ears now. Everything except the light was fading.

"Jan!” Eric, sounding a million miles away. “Jan!"

The light was so enticing, but . . .

"Jan!"

But she wanted to be with Eric. She struggled mightily to open her eyes—and finally succeeded. She was indeed in his living room, looking up at the stippled plaster of the ceiling. “Eric . . .” she said, but her voice sounded faint to her.

He loomed in and held up his key fob, which had an LED light on it. He pointed it first into her left eye then her right; the bright light she'd seen at the end of the tunnel hadn't hurt at all, but this did.

"I'm fine,” she said, her voice raw.

"We've got to take you to the hospital, find out what's wrong with you."

"I'm fine,” she said again and closed her eyes, part of her hoping the pure white light and the calming euphoria would come back.

* * * *

Reporters were still camped out in front of Luther Terry Memorial Hospital when Eric and Jan tried to enter. Eric kept his head down, and they'd almost made it to the staff entrance when a female journalist called out, “Wait! Wait! You're Eric Redekop, aren't you?"

"I've got no comment,” Eric said. He cupped Jan's elbow and propelled her toward the doorway.

"What was it like performing surgery on the president?” called the same reporter, and, “Any update on Jerrison's condition?” shouted another.

Eric and Jan kept walking, but then another reporter called out, “Dr. Redekop, what about these memory linkages? They say you were affected."

"And that woman!” called another reporter, pointing now at Jan. “Is that who you're linked to? What's it like?"

Eric pushed the door open and they entered the building.

"Jesus,” said Jan.

"It'll be okay,” Eric said. He led them to the elevator, and they headed up to Singh's lab on three. When they got there, they found Singh in his room, working at his computer. Susan Dawson was also there, sitting with her face in her hands.

"Dr. Redekop,” Singh said. “And Nurse Falconi. I thought you both had today off."

Eric saw Susan look up. She appeared devastated over something. Jan took a step backward and her eyes went wide. “Oh my God,” Jan said softly.

"What?” said Eric and Singh simultaneously.

"It's you,” Jan said, looking at Susan.

Eric knew that Jan had been interviewed by Professor Singh, not Agent Dawson; there was no particular reason she should recognize Susan.

"Yes?” Susan said.

"You're the one who killed me."

"Pardon?” said Singh.

"I mean, who killed Josh."

Susan put her head back in her hands.

"Jan collapsed,” Eric said. “She was having some sort of horrible memory."

"You were reading Josh Latimer,” Singh said to Jan, “and, yes, you're right, Mr. Latimer is no longer with us."

"Because she blew him away,” Jan said softly, looking at Susan. “But it felt like I was the one dying."

"Can you recall Mr. Latimer's memories now?” asked Singh.

Jan nodded meekly.

"Are you sure? Umm, did he have any pets as a child?"

"Benny,” she said at once. “An iguana."

"And the name of the street he lived on when he was ten?"

"Fenwick Avenue."

"Fascinating,” said Singh. “He's dead, but you can still access his memories."

"I guess,” said Jan.

Singh frowned again. “Then I wonder . . ."

"Yes?"

"Does he have any new memories?"

Eric crossed his arms in front of his chest. “He's dead, Mr. Singh."

"Yes, I know, but, well, if she can still access his memories from before, they must be somewhere, no? And so it's worth asking—"

"Asking what?” said Eric. “Whether she can recall angels?"

"It's worth a try,” said Singh. “Or if not angels, maybe . . . well, I don't know what."

Janis made a long-faced frown, as though this was the most bizarre idea she'd ever heard. But she closed her eyes—indeed, scrunched them tightly shut in concentration. “Okay,” she said after a moment, “I'm thinking about angels. Nothing. Heaven, clouds. Nothing. And—um, my God, Josh tried to kill somebody, didn't he?"

Ranjip nodded.

"All right, then,” said Janis. “Given that, I'm thinking of fire and brimstone. Well, not brimstone; I don't know what that is."

"Sulfur,” said Ranjip.

"Okay,” said Janis. “But it's not bringing anything to mind."

"This is bullshit,” said Eric.

"Perhaps,” said Singh. “But—"

"He's dead,” said Eric. “He's gone. And Jan felt him die. We should be worried about her, not him."

"I understand that,” said Singh. “And, if there is an afterlife, I doubt that any of the symbolism from Christianity—or from Sikhism, for that matter—appropriately captures it. It may just be that the right trigger hasn't come along to let Mrs. Falconi access Mr. Latimer's new memories."

"I don't care about Latimer,” said Eric, firmly. “What caused Jan to feel this?"

"That's a very good question,” said Singh, looking at her. “Something must have triggered you to recall Mr. Latimer's death shortly after it happened, Mrs. Falconi. What were you doing when you had the flashback?"

"Eric was showing me around his condo. It's just a few blocks from here."

Singh frowned. “There was no—I don't know—hunting rifle on the wall, or bloody roast defrosting in the sink?"

"No,” said Jan. “I was just admiring Eric's furniture."

"That seems unlikely as a trigger for this,” Singh said. “I wonder how long after Latimer died that the memory of it came to you."

"Jan collapsed at 12:17 p.m.,” said Eric. Singh looked at him. “I'm a doctor,” Eric added. “You always note when a seizure or anything similar starts, and how long it lasts."

"Agent Dawson,” Singh said, “when did you, ah, um—when did you shoot Mr. Latimer?"

Susan looked up again. Her voice was small. “I don't know. Sometime shortly after noon, but . . ."

"Hospital security will know,” Singh said. “They must have recorded the sound of the gunshot; I heard it even down here.” He picked up the phone on his desk and pounded out four digits. “It's Ranjip Singh. I need to know the time the gun was discharged this past hour. Yes. No. Really? Are you sure? Are you positive? Thank you. Goodbye.” He put down the phone. “The gunshot was recorded at 12:17 p.m."

"But memories are recalled after the fact,” Eric said. “That's what recall means."

"This wasn't like the other memories of Josh's I'd recalled,” Jan said. “It felt more real, more . . ."

"Immediate?” offered Singh.

Jan nodded.

"So you accessed Mr. Latimer's memories not after they'd been laid down,” Singh said, “but in real time, as he was experiencing the event?” He looked at Susan and lowered his voice a bit. “Did your seizure, as Dr. Redekop called it, start with the gunshot?"

"Yes,” said Jan, “although I didn't know what it was at the time. There was a flash of light and unbelievable pain, and then I saw her"—she pointed at Susan—"and then I was fading away bit by bit."

"Amazing,” said Singh. His eyes were wide with excitement. “Amazing."

"How so?” asked Jan.

"Until this point, people in our linked circle had been accessing memories randomly, and not in synchrony. What I was thinking about or doing had nothing to do with what Agent Dawson was recalling from my memories. But what happened to you was different. At the moment Mr. Latimer was being shot, you experienced what he was feeling, exactly when he felt it.” Singh shook his head slowly, and his voice was filled with wonder. “You weren't just reading his memory, Mrs. Falconi. You were reading his thoughts."

* * * *

Chapter 36

Susan Dawson continued to sit in Singh's lab with her head in her hands. That she'd done everything properly didn't matter; she'd never get this image—her own memory—out of her mind: the bullet hitting Josh Latimer's head, his blood geysering out, and him crumpling to the floor.

She'd studied the Zapruder film during training, of course—including the frames not usually shown that depicted JFK's head blowing open. She remembered her instructor at Rowley saying that it was actually Kennedy's bad back that had killed him. Oswald's first, non-fatal shot should have caused the president to pitch forward, out of Oswald's line of fire from the School Book Depository, but the back brace he wore had kept Kennedy upright, letting Oswald get the subsequent killing shot in.

She'd always remembered those grainy images, but this—this!—was so much more vivid, with vibrant colors, deafening sound, the stench of gunpowder, and the recoil of the weapon. She's been prepared to take a bullet for Jerrison—she really had been. But killing someone herself turned out to be a very different matter. She couldn't bring herself to participate in the discussion going on around her, but she listened.

"You weren't just reading his memory,” Singh had just said to Janis Falconi. “You were reading his thoughts."

"But why?” Eric Redekop asked. “The intensity of the feelings?"

Susan looked up in time to see Singh make his trademark shrug. “Maybe. But this raises a new level of concern. Fortunately, Mrs. Falconi wasn't injured—but she could have been. Indeed, if she'd been operating a motor vehicle, or even just walking down a tall staircase, she could have been killed."

Killed.

Susan thought again about her pistol firing, Latimer's blood spraying, and bits of his skull flying—and she thought about his eyes. Still tracking, still alive, still thinking for several seconds, like the severed heads of French guillotine victims looking up at their executioners.

"Sadly,” continued Singh, “we've learned something else. I'd been hoping that the daisy chain might be like the wiring of Christmas lights—if one went out, the whole chain would go, and all the memory linkages would break."

Susan briefly wondered what experience a Sikh could have had with Christmas decorations. “But that's not what happened,” she said.

"No,” replied Singh. “I can still read Dr. Jono, and I take it, Agent Dawson, that you can still read me."

Susan concentrated for a moment; Singh had had two hard-boiled eggs for breakfast; he, she suddenly knew, always kept a few on hand in that small refrigerator over there. “Yes."

"And Dr. Redekop, can you still access Mrs. Falconi's memories?” Singh asked.

Eric tilted his head sideways, then: “Yes. No problem. It's exactly the same as before.” He turned to Janis, and it looked to Susan as though an idea had just occurred to him. “But you got Latimer's memories in real time at the end."

"Yes,” said Janis.

"Obviously, being shot was traumatic for Latimer,” Eric said, “but, well—forgive me, Agent Dawson, I don't know about people in your line of work, but . . ."

"But I do,” said Singh, apparently realizing whatever Eric was getting at. “I spend most of my day dealing with people who've had to kill—even when it's their job, even when it's in the line of duty.” He looked at Susan. “It's not easy, is it?"

Susan thought about saying something, but simply shook her head.

"What's the normal procedure following such an incident?” Singh asked.

"Paperwork,” said Susan. “Forms, reports."

"And counseling?"

It was mandatory. “Yes."

"Looking at you, Agent Dawson, it's obvious that killing Latimer was traumatic for you, wasn't it?"

Susan drew a deep breath, glanced at each of the others in turn, then blew the air out. “It was horrifying."

Singh's tone was kind. “I'm sure it was. Do you see our point?"

She shook her head.

"It's this,” said Eric. “If you were severely traumatized by the shooting, maybe the person who is linked to you got your memory—your thoughts—in real time, too."

* * * *

Ranjip Singh entered the room first, followed by Eric Redekop and Janis Falconi; Susan Dawson had been bringing up the rear, but she'd been detained by someone calling her over her earpiece.

"Hello, Kadeem,” said Ranjip.

"Hey, guru,” said Kadeem.

"This is Janis Falconi; she's a nurse here. And this is Dr. Redekop."

"Another memory researcher?” asked Kadeem.

"Actually, I'm a surgeon” said Eric, “but—” He stopped short as Kadeem's eyes went wide in horror.

Ranjip wheeled around to see what Kadeem was looking at. It was Agent Dawson, who had just now entered the room. “My God, Sue,” said Kadeem. “My God. You blew that motherfucker away."

She nodded but said nothing.

"Did you just realize that?” asked Ranjip. “Did the memory just come to you?"

"Yes,” said Kadeem. Ranjip looked at Eric; it had seemed like such an interesting idea, but—

"Again,” added Kadeem.

"Again?” said Ranjip at once, looking back to Kadeem.

"Yes."

"When did you first recall this?"

"While ago."

"When?"

"Don't know."

"What room were you in when you recalled it?"

"This one."

"And what time did you come into this room?"

"I don't know. Does it matter?"

"Yes,” said Ranjip. “Is there anything that can help you pin down when you accessed that memory?"

"Like what?"

"Did you look at the clock?” asked Eric.

Kadeem gestured to encompass the room; there was no clock.

"What about a phone call?” asked Janis.

"Yes!” said Kadeem. “Yes, now you mention it, it was just after I called Kristah.” He pulled out his phone, and ran his fingertip along the touch screen. “The call lasted three minutes twenty seconds and"—another touch—"it began at 12:03."

Ranjip frowned. “And how long after that did the memory of—of what Agent Dawson did—hit you?"

"Couple of minutes."

"It can't be just a couple of minutes,” said Eric, looking at Janis. “Not unless we're dealing with precognition now."

"Could it be longer than that?” asked Ranjip. “Ten minutes, say?"

"Sure,” said Kadeem.

"Or twenty?"

"Maybe. I guess."

"Thirty?"

"Not that long, man."

"How did the memory begin?” asked Ranjip.

"What?"

Ranjip frowned. He knew the dangers of priming recollections, but he needed to get to the bottom of this. “What's the first thing you remember? Was it Agent Dawson bursting into the room? Her confronting that man who was holding the hostage? Her attempts to talk him out of what he was going to do?"

Kadeem shook his head. “I don't remember any of that—or, I didn't at the time; I do now, now you mention it.” He looked sympathetically at Susan. “You did your best, Sue; it's not your fault."

"But what about the first time?” asked Ranjip. “What popped into your mind initially?"

Kadeem actually shuddered. “Agent Dawson pulling the trigger."

Eric and Ranjip exchanged glances. “There it is,” said Ranjip. “Simultaneity—minds linked in real time during a moment of crisis."

"But this whole thing began with a moment of crisis,” Eric said. “The electromagnetic pulse when the White House was destroyed. What will happen if there's another crisis that affects all of us at the same time?"

Ranjip shrugged. “That's a very good question."

* * * *

Chapter 37

Susan Dawson and Mark Griffin enlisted three LT psychologists to brief the affected people about the dangerous possibility that they might experience direct real-time linkages during moments of crisis, perhaps with debilitating effects. The psychologists spoke face-to-face to the people still in the hospital and phoned the ones who had left.

Meanwhile, Ranjip Singh ordered an MRI scan of nurse Janis Falconi, but was told there was nothing unusual about her brain; no matter how vivid the pain had been when she'd tapped into Josh Latimer's mind at the moment of his death, there didn't seem to have been any gross permanent change.

He then got Eric Redekop into a second MRI scanner, and looked to see if there was any interesting activity in Janis's brain while he was recalling her memories. It would have been fascinating if corresponding spots in, say, their right temporal lobes had lit up at the same time—but nothing like that happened. That just added fuel to the notion that the linkages were indeed based on quantum entanglement, a realm beyond the resolution of the brain scanners.

He also ordered an MRI of Kadeem Adams. The private had been scanned just before undergoing Ranjip's procedure. The aborted attempt at memory-erasing shouldn't have altered Kadeem's brain in any way an MRI scanner could see, but Ranjip had wanted to check if there was any structural change that could be attributed to the mind linkings. Again, the results were negative; his earlier MRI and the new one showed no appreciable difference.

But, still, something had changed.

As Kadeem was pulled out of the MRI tunnel, he looked up at Ranjip and the MRI technician and said, “Sue's with Prospector."

Ranjip tilted his head slightly; he'd never heard Kadeem refer to the president by his code name before. “Oh?"

"She's with Prospector right now,” said Kadeem.

"Probably,” said Ranjip.

"I see it,” said Kadeem. “Him. His room. I see it, right now."

"Instead of me?” asked Ranjip.

"No, I see you, too, guru. You're more vivid, but I see . . . I'm seeing what she's seeing, too. Like a faint double exposure, or an afterimage, or something."

"Superimposed over your vision?"

"Yeah."

"How long has this been going on?"

"I don't know. Not long. It's faint, like I said. Couldn't make it out in the MRI machine, but here, lying on my back, looking up at the ceiling—it's a plain white, roof, see?” He pointed; Ranjip glanced up and confirmed it. “So, my own vision's not showing much, and I can—damn, it's strange—I can see what she's seeing, faint, ghostlike, but clear."

"Memories don't contain a lot of visual information,” Ranjip said.

"Ain't no memory, guru. I can jump around in her memories. What'd she have for dinner last night? Bunless hamburger, down in the cafeteria here. What'd she have for lunch? Power bar. Where'd she go after dinner? Woman's room, off the lobby—had something in her eye, took a bit to get it out. Memories I can get in any order, and from any time. This is playing out like a movie—I can't skip ahead, or go back, or anything."

"And it's from her point of view? You're sure?"

"Yeah. Prospector just asked, ‘Any update on the matter we were discussing earlier?’”

"You can hear what she's hearing, too?"

"If it's quiet around me. Volume's really low—like, you know, if you left your iPod on but have taken off the earbuds. You hear that faint music, and you think, damn, where that be coming from? It's like that. We're talking now—you and me—so I can't make it out, and when I look at you, or over at all that equipment over there, the background is too messy and complex for me to really see what she be seeing, but if I really concentrate, it's there."

The MRI technician—a petite white woman with bright red hair—spoke. “Like floaters, sort of?"

Kadeem frowned. “What?"

"Lots of people have them,” said the technician. “Bits of junk in the vitreous humor of the eye; you see them when looking at a clear blue sky, or a plain sheet of paper, or whatever, but can't make them out the rest of the time."

"Yeah,” said Kadeem. “Kinda like that. But way more detailed.” He looked up at the blank ceiling again. “I can see Prospector right now—like he's looking right at me—and he doesn't have that breathing thing in his nose anymore."

"Are you just getting her sensory stream,” asked Ranjip, “or can you also read Agent Dawson's thoughts?"

"Hard to say. There are some words, and they ain't Prospector's. But I don't hear them—and they're not a steady stream. But, yeah, must be Sue. ‘Check with Darryl . . .’ ‘. . . something something keycard access.’ Fragments, but I hear them."

"Give me a moment,” Ranjip said. There was a gurney nearby. He stretched out on it, reflecting, not for the first time, that it was nice to have a turban that doubled as a portable pillow. He looked up at the same blank ceiling Kadeem had been staring at and tried to discern any faint images of Lucius Jono's life—not memories of the redheaded surgeon, but the sights that Jono himself might currently be seeing. He also strained to listen for any sounds Jono might be hearing. Of course, it was possible that Jono was asleep, even though it was now well past noon, but . . .

Nothing. Nothing at all. Ranjip got off the gurney.

"Power nap, guru?” asked Kadeem.

"Just trying to see if I was linked in the same way, but I'm not. Still, let's check our facts.” He pulled out his BlackBerry and a small Bluetooth earpiece for it, then walked across the room, far enough away that Kadeem couldn't possibly hear what the earpiece was conveying. Then he placed a call. “Agent Dawson. It's Ranjip. Can you talk?"

"Yes."

"You are with President Jerrison?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Tell me: does he still have a respirator on?"

"No, they removed that about an hour ago."

Ranjip felt his heart pounding. Still, it didn't prove anything other than that Kadeem had Agent Dawson's memories, as before. “I need your help to conduct an experiment."

"Sure,” Susan said. “Two seconds.” He heard her begging President Jerrison's indulgence. Ranjip happened to be looking over at Kadeem when he heard Jerrison say, “I'm not going anywhere,” and he saw Kadeem smile in amusement—but was it at the president's quip or something else?

When Susan was back, Ranjip spoke loudly so Kadeem could hear from across the room. “Private Adams?"

"Yo."

"I'm going to ask Agent Dawson to think of a series of numbers from one to ten. As she thinks of them, please hold up the right number of fingers, okay?"

Kadeem nodded.

"All right, Agent Dawson, you heard what I said. Give me a series of numbers, from one to ten. Not any sequence you know by heart, like your social security number, but random numbers, one per second. Just whisper them to me, starting . . . now."

"Four,” said Susan, and Kadeem held up his left hand with the fingers splayed and the thumb tucked against his palm.

"Two,” said Susan, and Kadeem made a peace sign.

"Seven,” she said; he kept the peace sign up and added a full hand with all five fingers.

"Six.” Kadeem made the polite choice about which finger to drop from the peace sign.

"Ten.” Both hands, all fingers splayed, like a child showing he'd successfully washed.

"Amazing,” said Ranjip.

"What?” asked Susan.

"That real-time link that Private Adams had with you at the moment you shot Latimer? It's persisting. He can still read your thoughts."

"Oh, shit,” Susan said.

And, from across the room, Kadeem added, “She's wondering what'll happen if Bessie Stilwell ends up being able to do the same thing with Prospector."

* * * *

Dora Hennessey's internal clock wasn't adjusting properly to the five-hour time-zone change between London and Washington: although it was only 3:00 p.m. here, it was already 8:00 p.m. back home. And it hadn't helped that they'd made an incision in her side on Friday morning; the stitches itched. Still, she didn't like just lying in the hospital bed, and so instead was sitting in a chair by the window, looking out at the November afternoon.

Dora and her father each had a private room, which was all to the good. She'd be ready to go to sleep in a few hours; the last thing she needed was a roommate who'd want to watch television in the evening.

Dora could read the memories of Ann January, a nurse who had been part of the team that had saved the president. She still wasn't happy about having her own surgery postponed to accommodate him, but she did know, because Ann knew it, just how close they'd come to losing Jerrison, and although her father was thinking of suing, she couldn't bring herself to contemplate that.

There was a knock on her door. “Yes?” she called.

The door swung inward revealing Dr. Mark Griffin. She'd met him on Friday; he'd come to see her after she woke up from the anesthetic to explain why the surgery had been halted. “Hello, Dora,” he said. “May I come in?"

"Sure."

There was another chair in the room, a smaller one. He turned it around, and straddled it, facing her, his arms folded across the top of its back. “Dora,” he said, “I'm so sorry, but I've got some bad news."

"You're not postponing the transplant again,” she said. Did he have any idea how nerve-racking all this was for her?

"There won't be a transplant."

"Why not? The tissue match was perfect."

Griffin took a deep breath. “Dora, your father is dead."

"What?"

"I'm so, so sorry."

"Dead?"

"Yes."

She was quiet for a time, then: “If this is because you postponed giving him my kidney—"

"It's not that. It's not that at all. Dora, your father tried to kill someone this afternoon—and he was shot by a federal agent."

She'd heard a sound earlier, but—God—she'd thought it had been a car backfiring.

"What . . . what happens now?"

"One of our surgeons will have a look at your incision; we'd planned to reopen it, of course, so the closure was done to accommodate that. We'll get you fixed up."

Her head was spinning. “I—I don't know if I can take all this,” she said.

Griffin nodded. “I understand. We're hoping you'll stay here. We're advising all those who were affected by the memory linking to stay under our care until we get that sorted out, and, well, with everything you've been through . . ."

Dora looked out the window again, but her vision blurred as tears welled in her eyes.

* * * *

Chapter 38

After having the MRI scans, Eric and Jan went by Jan's locker at the hospital. She kept a change of clothing there—you never knew when a patient was going to vomit on you, she said. She put the clothes in a plastic bag, and they headed back to Eric's apartment, stopping at a CVS along the way to buy her a toothbrush and a few other things. The sky was cloudy.

Events hadn't gone the way Eric had intended. He'd wanted to help Jan, yes, but he'd really only planned to get her to a shelter.

But now she was here, in his home.

And he knew more about her than anyone else in his life. More than he knew about his parents, his sisters, his son, his ex-wife.

He thought back to this morning, back to when he'd come to get her at the Bronze Shield, her setting up to play, rolling the characters, and—

No. No, those were her memories, not his; he hadn't been there at the beginning of the game. God, they came to him just like his own memories now . . . like she was a part of him.

Like they were a couple.

Huh. Funny phrase that. “A couple.” A singular noun for two individuals. Except . . .

Except they weren't quite individuals anymore. He was linked to her, and for events they had shared—the MRI session this afternoon, her collapsing before that, what went down at the gaming store, their interaction yesterday—the memories were hopelessly intertwined. He couldn't think about any joint experience they'd had without her perspective mixing with his own.

Time was passing. It would be evening in a few hours. And then night, and—

And he did care about her.

And she did like him.

And she was very, very beautiful.

But—

But when they'd come into the living room now, and he'd sat on the long white couch, he'd expected her to sit down beside him. Instead, she took the matching chair that faced the couch and sat with her knees tucked up toward her chin.

"Can I get you anything to drink?” he asked. “Coffee? Beer?"

She just sat there.

He lifted his eyebrows. “Jan? Did you hear me? Would you like something to drink?"

"I heard you,” she said. “I just figured you'd answer your question."

"Jan, I can't read your mind—just your memories. This isn't a time of crisis.” So far, anyway . . .

"Oh, right. Sorry."

He tried to move to more neutral ground. “It's strange that the linkages can, at least some of the time, connect not just memories but thoughts, too."

"Why's that strange?” she asked. “It's all just brain activity, right?"

"Yeah, but memories involve permanent changes in the brain—an actual physical alteration in its structure. Thoughts are evanescent."

"I wish I could read your memories,” she said, and she gave him the faintest of smiles. “That would save me the embarrassment of having to ask you what that word means."

"Evanescent?” said Eric. “Fleeting. Vanishing like vapor. Unlike the laying down of memories, there's no permanent structural change in the brain associated with having thoughts.” He shifted on the couch and looked across the glass-topped coffee table at her. “You know, it's funny. If someone attacked you with a knife and scarred you, the courts would assess the physical damage—how long a scar, how many stitches it took to close the wound, whatever—and they'd come up with a figure that you'd be entitled to in compensation. But hurting someone with words that they'll always remember? With an act they'll never forget? That's physical damage, too—it changes you just as permanently as a scar. But instead of tallying up what the compensation should be, we just say, ‘Get over it,’ or ‘You should develop a thicker skin,’ or—and this is ironic, given that it's the one thing that's impossible—'you should just forget about it.'” He shook his head, thinking about the things Tony had said to her, had done to her.

She was quiet for a time, then, so softly that he wasn't sure he'd heard every word correctly, she said, “I can't take it."

"Take what?” asked Eric.

"The memory thing."

He nodded; it was unequal, it was unfair, it was unbalanced. “I'm sorry,” he said. “Really, I am—I don't mean to invade your privacy."

But Jan shook her head. “It's not that; it's not you. It's her."

"Who?” asked Eric.

"Her. That woman who is linked to you—the one who sells houses. Um, Nikki Van Hausen."

"What about her?” asked Eric.

"She knows everything that's happened between us, everything that happened today.” Jan looked away. “And everything that will happen later."

"But she's gone from our lives,” Eric said. “She left LT when the lockdown ended. I'll probably never see her again."

"She's not gone,” said Jan. “She's right here. She'll recall this conversation, recall what happened with Tony at the Bronze Shield, and if we ever—if we ever make . . .” She shook her head a bit and fell silent.

Eric looked around his living room—familiar surroundings to him, alien ones to Jan, but, yes, doubtless recallable by Nikki Van Hausen, even though she'd never been here. It was easy to forget that the intimate way he knew Jan was echoed by the way Nikki knew him.

But it wasn't the same, God damn it. It wasn't. Nikki was a complete stranger to him, just as he was to her. Oh, sure, it was probably interesting to her in an abstract way that she had someone else's memories, but there was no emotional connection between him and her.

"Sweetheart,” said Eric—and a memory, or rather a lack of a memory, hit him; Tony had never called Jan that, or any other term of endearment. He went on: “It's okay. We never have to see her again, or even think about her."

But Jan shook her head once more. “She knows—or will know—what you just said. And she'll resent it—she'll think you're insulting her. Don't you see? She's got the same level of access to you that you have to me; she can't help but be fascinated by your life."

"I'm sure she just wants to get on with her own,” Eric said.

"Just like you did?” Jan replied, looking at him across the intervening coffee table.

"It's different,” he said again.

"I don't know,” Jan said sadly.

"Just don't think about it,” Eric said. “As one of my favorite writers once said, ‘Learning to ignore things is one of the great paths to inner peace.’”

"I don't think I can ignore this."

He hesitated for a moment, then got up, crossed over to her, perched himself on the wide padded arm of the chair, and reached to stroke her tattooed shoulder. But she flinched, and he stopped.

After a moment, she rose and walked out of the living room, heading to the second bedroom, the one that was there for when Quentin visited, leaving Eric wondering at what point in the future—the next day, the next week, the next year, the next decade—Nikki Van Hausen would recall what him having his heart broken felt like.

* * * *

Chapter 39

Under normal circumstances, Bessie Stilwell might have wished to spend more time in Los Angeles. She'd always wanted to see the Walk of Fame, and find the stars there for Cary Grant and Christopher Plummer and James Dean. And it certainly was nice to be somewhere warm after Washington. But her son was still in the hospital, and although she'd seen him first thing this morning before she and Darryl had flown here, she needed to get back, to be there for him.

They left the TV studio and headed straight for the Los Angeles Air Force Base. Bessie was put in a secure waiting room, with two uniformed Air Force guards standing outside the door, while Darryl went off to speak to the base commander. She lowered herself slowly, painfully, onto a wooden seat and picked up a magazine off a table—but the type was much too small for her to read.

At last, Agent Hudkins returned. “Okay, ma'am,” he said. “Everything's set. I'm sorry we have to make two big flights in one day."

"That's all right,” Bessie said. “I need to get back to my son, anyway."

"Yes, ma'am. Shall we go?"

* * * *

Janis was laying on the bed in the guest room, in a fetal position, her eyes closed, thinking about what she'd done. Part of her was elated at having left Tony. And part of her was terrified, wondering what the future held.

And, of course, there were the memories of Josh Latimer being shot. They were still vivid, but they weren't real anymore; they felt like any memory felt, with no sense that the thing was happening again right now. The soldier she'd met today, Kadeem Adams, had post-traumatic stress disorder; his flashbacks felt like the horrific things were really happening again. But thankfully it seemed Jan wasn't going to be experiencing that immediacy every time she recalled Josh being shot.

"Jan. . . ?” Eric's voice, not much above a whisper—the kind of tentative uttering of a name one uses when testing if someone is asleep.

She opened her eyes. He was silhouetted in the doorway, a thin bald man, leaning against the jamb. “Hmmm?” she said.

"Dr. Griffin called. There's going to be a press conference about Jerrison's condition at 4:00 p.m. He wants me to be part of it."

"Ah, okay."

"Do you want to come?"

"How long will it take?"

"Could be a couple of hours. He wants us all to go over what we're going to say first, before we face the reporters."

She hadn't been part of the surgery. “Can I stay here?"

"Of course,” and although he didn't say it, she heard in his tone and was grateful for it, “For as long as you like."

"Thanks,” she said.

"I'm going to head out. Help yourself to anything in the fridge. You like Chinese.” She'd never told him that, but he knew. “There's some leftover Kung Pao chicken."

"Thanks."

Jan soon heard him leave the apartment. She lay there a while longer, hugging her knees, but at last she got up, left Quentin's bedroom, and headed into the living room.

The furniture was nicer than any she'd ever owned; everything in her place had been named for some damn Swedish lake or river and had been assembled with an Allen key. But this stuff—the coffee table, the bookcases, the cabinets, all in what she guessed was cherry wood—was expensive.

Besides numerous hardcover books—a luxury Tony had never let her buy—there were objects on the bookshelves: an Eskimo soapstone carving of a bird, a quill pen, a bronze medallion with the word “Champ” engraved into it, a white marble chess piece. Each of them doubtless had a story behind it—they were keepsakes, mementos—but they meant nothing to her.

But there was someone beside Eric who could tell the story behind each one: Nikki Van Hausen.

It was a distinctive-enough name, Jan thought, although, if she were married, it might be her husband's first name that was in the phone book.

Jan blew out air. If she were married. This Nikki woman knew everything about Eric, but Jan didn't know even the most basic facts about Nikki.

She went into Eric's office. He had a MacBook Air sitting on a glass-topped work station, with a Safari browser window open. She typed “Nicky Van Hausen” into Google, but that produced too many hits to be useful. But adding “real estate” to the sting quickly turned up pay dirt, thanks to Google offering the correct spelling of the first name: her website, but also, Jan was surprised to see, an article from this morning's Washington Post. Upon getting word of the memory linkages that had occurred at LT, a clever reporter had interviewed Nikki, since she remembered the operation as clearly as Eric himself did.

Her website—which offered “2% commissions” and “free home appraisals"—gave her phone number. Jan picked up the handset in this room, then set it back down; she didn't want the Caller ID to show Eric's name. She went to the marble entryway, got her purse, dug out her cell—and saw that she had four voice messages from Tony. She shuddered, ignored them, and placed the call.

"Nikki Van Hausen Realty,” said a perky voice.

"Is this—” Christ, she still didn't know if it was Miss or Mrs. “Um, is this Nikki?"

"Speaking."

"Nikki, this is Janis Falconi."

There was silence for three or four seconds. “Oh."

"I need to talk to you,” Jan said.

"What about?"

Jan's turn to hesitate. “Sharing Eric's memories."

"Look, about that article, I didn't—"

"No, no. I don't care about the article; I don't care that you know that stuff. It's just—I just . . . I don't know, I thought maybe I'd be more comfortable with all this if I met you."

"Umm. Okay. Maybe."

"Could we get together this afternoon?"

"Um, where?"

"Well, I'm sure you know I'm staying at Eric's place, and I don't have a car or a key. Could you—could you come by his home?"

"Ah, will he be there?"

"No. No."

Nikki sounded relieved. “Yeah, I guess I could do that.” A pause. “He's in the Potomac Palace, right?” she said, naming his condo development. “Penthouse two?"

Jan shivered slightly. “Yes."

"I'm showing a place near there this afternoon. About 4:30, okay?"

"Fine,” said Jan. “Thanks.” They ended the call and she held her cell phone in her trembling hand.

* * * *

Bessie hadn't had much to do with the military since her husband had come back from Korea all those years ago. She was amazed at how high-tech everything had become: here at the base there were all sorts of computers, complex screen displays, and sundry gadgets that she couldn't begin to identify, and—

And, well, no, that wasn't right. She did know what a bunch of them were, now that she thought about it: she knew because Seth Jerrison knew, having learned about them since coming to office—although a lot of them still didn't really make sense to him, either, what with being a history professor and all. As she and Darryl walked toward the plane, they passed soldier after soldier, and out on the airfield, near the jet that was going to take them, she saw what had to be a bomber, and . . .

And the word Counterpunch popped into her head.

And as they continued on into the plane and were shown to their seats, details about it came to her—horrible, horrific details. Her hands were shaking so much that she had to ask Darryl to do up her seat belt for her.

Yes, the US had been pushed too far by terrorists; there was no doubt about that. But this—this was . . .

Of course, a response was necessary; yes, leaders had to lead.

But this!

The plane started rolling down the runway. She had four hours until they'd land.

Four hours to decide what she was going to do.

* * * *

To be concluded.

Copyright (C) 2012 Robert J. Sawyer

[Back to Table of Contents]

Reader's Department: THE REFERENCE LIBRARY by Don Sakers

If the field of science fiction had an official religion, ancestor worship would doubtless be a major component. We have always revered our elders, read and re-read their stories, passed their books on to newer generations, and . . . er . . . borrowed their ideas. An older, well-established science fiction author is honored and respected, and no matter how obscure, there's always some reader with a tattered magazine or paperback to have autographed.

Once one of those elder statesmen goes on to the great typewriter in the sky, his or her stature in the field increases. After all, a deceased author can't insult anyone or participate in feuds (not that this has stopped some from trying). And this phenomenon isn't just limited to older writers; in a few unfortunate cases, an untimely death turns out to be the best career move the author ever made.

Now that the field of commercial science fiction is in its ninth decade, the ranks of our honored ancestors, alas, continue to swell. It's gotten so bad now that authors who entered the field as child prodigies are dying of old age.

Fortunately, the field remembers. Science fiction writing is a “pay it forward” game: established authors inspire and help newcomers, who in turn become established and pass the inspiration and help onward. In such a climate, it's natural to honor those who came before.

Nowadays, too, it has become much easier for current readers to discover the works of those who went before. Older works remain in print—and if not, they're available for a pittance from online booksellers. E-book editions are easy to get; many of the earliest books and stories are free for the taking on Project Gutenberg (www.gutenberg.org). And increasingly, we're learning about the lives of our forbears through autobiographies and biographies.

The idea that science fiction writers’ lives were worthy of being enshrined in biographical amber dates from 1966, when Sam Moskowitz published Seekers of Tomorrow in a small press edition. The book mixed biography with literary criticism, and set the pattern for subsequent works such as Donald A. Wollheim's The Universe Makers (1971), Charles Platt's two volumes of Dream Makers (1980, 1983), and even John Clute and Peter Nicholls’ Encyclopedia of Science Fiction (1979, revised 1993, now exclusively online at www.sf-encyclopedia.com).

Beginning in 1972, Doubleday published a series of collections that featured early stories of a big-name author, stitched together by the author's autobiographical musings. The first was The Early Asimov; later volumes included The Early Del Rey and The Early Pohl.

In 1975 Brian W. Aldiss and Harry Harrison released Hell's Cartographers. This seminal volume contained autobiographical essays by six writers (including Aldiss and Harrison), and proved fairly popular. In 1977 Damon Knight took a different tack on group biography with The Futurians, which told the story of a dozen or so big-name authors and the social groups to which they belonged.

Then, in 1978, Frederik Pohl (one of the six essayists included in Hell's Cartographers) released his own book-length autobiography, The Way the Future Was. Isaac Asimov's life story filled two huge and fascinating volumes, In Memory Yet Green (1979) and In Joy Still Felt (1980). Subsequent years have brought autobiographies from such names as Piers Anthony (Bio of an Ogre in 1988 and How Precious Was That While in 2001), Ray Bradbury (Becoming Ray Bradbury, 2011), Arthur C. Clarke (Astounding Days, 1989), Jack Vance (This is Me, Jack Vance!, 2009), and Jack Williamson (Wonder's Child, 2005). Newer writers, too, are telling parts of their life stories, such as The Motion of Light in Water by Samuel R. Delany (1993) and Nested Scrolls by Rudy Rucker (2011).

Sadly, there are even posthumous autobiographies, published after the author's death. Robert A. Heinlein's Grumbles From the Grave (1990) is a collection of Heinlein's letters, and Isaac Asimov's I. Asimov (1994) was written as a third volume of his autobiography.

We have even entered the era in which we learn about the lives of science fiction writers through third-party biographies such as Brian Herbert's Dreamer of Dune: The Biography of Frank Herbert (2004) and this year's Robert A. Heinlein: in Dialogue With His Century volume I by William H. Patterson.

Which brings us to one of the most interesting books of science fiction biography to come out recently.

* * * *

Fantasy Commentator: Sam Moskowitz and A. Langley Searles Memorial Issue

M. Alice Becker Searles

Lulu.com, 164 pages, $9.60 (trade paperback)

Genre: Nonfiction

* * * *

The story behind this volume is as complicated as its subject; bear with me and I'll try to untangle it and tell you why you want this book.

John W. Campbell, Jr. is one of the great names in science fiction, and not just for his writing; as most of you know, he was editor of Astounding/Analog from 1937 until 1971. When Campbell took over Astounding he completely altered the landscape of science fiction, and his influence is still felt today. His importance to the field cannot be overestimated.

Campbell had a close friend in Massachusetts, one Robert Swisher. Over about twenty years (from 1936 to the mid-1950s), Campbell and Swisher exchanged many letters. Swisher kept all of Campbell's letters; after Campbell's death in 1971, Swisher sent all the letters to his widow.

In the fullness of time, the Swisher letters came to the attention of science fiction historian Sam Moskowitz, who set out to edit the whole mess into a narrative concentrating on Campbell's SF career. In 1992, fan publisher A. Langley Searles undertook to publish Moskowitz's lengthy article in his fanzine, Fantasy Commentator. Unfortunately, illness and ultimately Searles’ death in 2009 delayed the publication.

Now Searles’ widow presents the whole thing in book form, ostensibly as combined issues 59 and 60 of Fantasy Commentator. Fanzines have come a long way since the days of blurry purple ditto pages; through the wonders of print-on-demand this double issue is available for less than ten dollars though lulu.com. The print is attractive, in crisp black type on white paper, and the book is entirely readable.

Here you'll read about Campbell's search for employment after college, his early forays into writing SF, his apprenticeship at Astounding under F. Orlin Tremaine, and the mechanics of the Campbell Revolution. You'll follow him through his fascination (and eventual disillusionment) with L. Ron Hubbard and Dianetics.

Professional and amateur bibliographers will be debating for years how to classify this volume, but don't let that stop you. If you're at all interested in Campbell and the history of this magazine you're reading, you'll want to get this book.*

* * * *

Murray Leinster: The Life and Works

Billee J. Stallings and Jo-An J. Evans

McFarland, 219 pages, $40.00

(trade paperback)

ISBN: 978-0-7864-6504-0

Genre: Nonfiction

* * * *

Murray Leinster, the pen name of Will F. Jenkins, was one of those revered elders who have now passed into “venerable ancestor” status. His first published story appeared in 1916, and he became a successful pulp writer in the 1920s. Leinster's first SF story, published in 1919, was reprinted in the first issue of Amazing Stories, the magazine that launched science fiction as a commercial genre. Murray Leinster wasn't just there at the beginning; when the beginning came, he'd already been there for seven years. (Incidentally, he also had a story, “Tanks,” in the first issue of Astounding in 1930.)

Pick a concept in SF, and it's a pretty sure bet that Murray Leinster was one of the first to write about it. He invented the parallel universe story. His story about humans meeting aliens, “First Contact,” defined another subgenre . . . even today we call them First Contact stories.

Unlike a lot of his pulp associates, Leinster handily survived the Campbell revolution; he remained popular in Astounding and Analog until the mid-1960s, when he had shifted mainly to writing novels. Recently, Leinster's prescience has become widely recognized, because of his 1946 story “A Logic Named Joe,” which essentially described the personal computer and the Internet at a time when only one general-purpose electronic computer existed on the planet.

Murray Leinster died in 1975 at the age of 78, and left a legacy that will never be forgotten.

In Murray Leinster: The Life and Works, his two youngest daughters lift the veil to show us the man behind the name. Starting with his first short stories and continuing through his death, this is an intimate and informative look at an extinct breed, the pulp writer. The book is extensively illustrated with photographs, drawings, and even manuscript pages.

Through the eyes of his daughters, we see a man who was a consummate storyteller, a dazzling intellect, and a devoted husband and father. For pulp writers, speed and quantity were the keys to survival—in the Jenkins house, the typewriter had pride of place, and Leinster—the breadwinner—could be found there at all hours of the day and night. We get to see something of his working habits, especially his interactions with the great editors of the day—Campbell as well as others. In addition to a twenty-page bibliography, the volume includes both the story “A Logic Named Joe” and a 1954 essay called “To Build a Robot Brain."

Yet this isn't simply the story of one pulp writer . . . it's also the story of the science fiction field itself. If we are all ancestor worshippers, Murray Leinster is a good ancestor to start with. Don't let the price deter you—if you have any interest in the roots of our genre, then you want to read this book.

* * * *

Sentinels in Honor of Arthur C. Clarke

Edited by Gregory Benford and

George Zebrowski

Hadley Rille Books, 400 pages, $16.95

(trade paperback)

ISBN: 978-0982725603

Genre: Anthology

* * * *

Another type of ancestor veneration is the tribute anthology, which gathers stories (and sometimes essays) by many different writers, all in honor of a big name author. The first SF tribute anthology I can find was Harry Harrison's 1973 anthology Astounding!, which was published as a posthumous tribute to John W. Campbell, Jr. While most tribute anthologies, unfortunately, are occasioned by the death of the honoree, there have been a few published while the author was still alive. Notable among these are Foundation's Friends (edited by Martin H. Greenberg in 1989 in honor of Isaac Asimov) and Gateways (edited by Elizabeth Anne Hull and published in 2011 in honor of Frederik Pohl's 90th birthday).

It's about time Arthur C. Clarke had a tribute anthology.

Clarke hardly needs an introduction in the pages of Analog. He was perhaps the best-known science fiction writer on Earth. Along with Isaac Asimov and Robert A. Heinlein, he was considered one of the “Big Three” of SF; superstars whose popularity among readers was matched only by their influence upon other SF writers.

Clarke was certainly the most literary of the Big Three; while nobody ever believes me when I say this, there are passages in Clarke's work that are pure poetry. He had an agile mind that was equally comfortable figuring interplanetary orbits as it was contemplating the nature of God. It wasn't just that he invented the comsat and did more to popularize space travel than any ten other authors; he also left his touch on the field in a thousand different ways.

Clarke died in 2008, and it's taken this long for this anthology to find a publisher.

A tribute anthology customarily solicits new stories. In Sentinels in Honor of Arthur C. Clarke, editors Benford and Zebrowski have chosen a different path. They combed the literature of SF looking for stories that showed the influence of Sir Arthur. This gives the anthology a much wider scope than most tributes. There are the hard-SF names that you'd expect: Allen Steele, Stephen Baxter, James Gunn, Benford himself. But there are also stories by Howard Waldrop and A.A. Jackson IV, Joan Slonczewski, Sheila Finch, Frederik Pohl, and Pamela Sargent—names that one doesn't usually associate with Clarke. Yet reading the stories, one can easily see the connections.

Also included are various essays about Clarke by the contributors, a checklist of Sir Arthur's works, and a lengthy interview of Clarke by Zebrowski. All in all, it's definitely a rewarding book for anyone who likes Clarke's work.

* * * *

Channel 37

Paul Lagasse and Gary Lester
channel-37.net

Genre: Adventure SF

* * * *

The tribute anthology is a special case of another form of ancestor worship, the homage. This kind of story is a current author's conscious effort to evoke an earlier author or a particular style. Successful homage is hard to pull off, as it isn't just slavish imitation—the current authors must add something of his/her own. And have I got a successful homage for you!

Channel 37 is a website filled with short fiction, ranging from bite-size snippets to novelette length serials. Ostensibly the site honors the kind of late-night SF movies that were featured on UHF TV channels of the 1950s through 1970s (hence the Channel 37 of the title). However, Paul Lagasse and Gary Lester are writers, and their efforts also evoke the pre-Campbell stories that filled SF pulps of the 1920s and 1930s.

This is all tongue-in-cheek, of course. The writing is far better than you'd see in the pulps (or the late-night movies, for that matter), and the authors have an obvious enthusiasm for their subject. Titles like “The Terror From the Other Dimension!” and “Space Repairman” give you the idea at once.

On the Channel 37 site you can read completed stories—Lagasse and Lester have been at this since 2010—but the real fun is the ongoing serials, of which there are four as I write this. Every Tuesday and Friday a new chapter is posted; if you want, you can sign up to receive new chapters via an RSS feed.

Somehow, one gets the feeling that Campbell and Leinster would approve.

* * * *

If By Reason of Strength

Jamie Todd Rubin

40k, 10,000 words, Kindle: $2.99 (e-book)

Genre: Biological SF

* * * *

40k (or, in words, Fortykey) is an Italian e-book publisher specializing in original short fiction, mostly novelette or novella length, and boy do they have some good stuff. Paul Di Filippo, Cory Doctorow, Mike Resnick, Bruce Sterling, and Jeff VanDerMeer all have e-books available from 40k. Prices are sensible, ranging from 99 cents to $3.49—certainly well under the $5.00 threshold that most readers are comfortable with. (Traditional publishers, are you listening? No, you're not.)

And now there's Jamie Todd Rubin. Rubin is no stranger to Analog's pages; his story “Take One for the Road” appeared in the June 2011 issue. If By Reason of Strength has an Analog flavor about it. The story is billed as a “techno-thriller” but that's just marketing talk . . . there are no echoes of Tom Clancy here.

Norman Gilmore was pilot on the first mission to Mars. On the red planet, he and some others of the crew picked up a virus-like alien disease. Norman was the only one to survive the disease. Upon returning to Earth, he was tried and convicted for murdering four crewmates. He was sentenced to a jail term of 280 years.

Somehow, Norman lived to complete that term, and he's released, famous as the oldest living human. Now he needs to get back to Mars, and to do so he has to cut a deal with the world's most powerful pharmaceutical company. . . .

A thoughtful, engaging SF story at an attractive price . . . what more could one ask?

And that's it for our session on ancestor worship. Go forth, enjoy the new, and honor those who came before.

* * * *

Don Sakers is the author of Dance for the Ivory Madonna and A Voice in Every Wind. For more information, visit www.scatteredworlds.com.

Copyright (C) 2012 Don Sakers

* * * *

* Stan, I know you told Sakers to cut this title because James Gunn reviews it later in the issue . . . but John insisted that it run.

Yours,

Kelvin Throop

[Back to Table of Contents]

Reader's Department: A REFERENCE LIBRARY SUPPLEMENT by Don Sakers

Fantasy Commentator, Spring 2011, volume XI, numbers 3&4: Inside John W. Campbell, Based on His Letters, 1936-1952, as interpreted and annotated by Sam Moskowitz. Lulu.com, 2011 159 p. (www.lulu. com/) $9.60

One of the peculiar characteristics of finished art is that it conceals the failures and frustrations of the process that created it. Paintings do not reveal the abandoned sketches, music does not speak of what did not work, stories do not mention the numerous revisions. A writer soon learns that a typed manuscript looks better than a hand-written one, and that a printed story looks professional. And yet we are fascinated by the process, by the sketch behind the painting, the score with the altered notes, the hand-written manuscripts with its deletions and insertions. And with all the human failures and triumphs that lie behind each.

So it is with the editorial process. A new publication, long delayed, reveals the story behind John W. Campbell, Jr., and the creation of what later became known as “the Golden Age” of science fiction. An issue of Fantasy Commentator, published posthumously by A. Langley Searles with the assistance of his widow, M. Alice Becker Searles, finally make available the SF-related excerpts from Campbell's letters to his friend, Robert D. Swisher, as edited and interpreted by the late Sam Moskowitz.

It is a remarkable document, not so much in its execution but in its content. The letters provide an unparalleled insight into the formative years of Campbell the writer, Campbell the editor, and the Golden Age. Moskowitz tells the story of how the letters came into his possession from Campbell's widow Peg after Campbell's death and of his efforts to get them published. Forty years after Campbell's death in 1971, the project was finally brought to fruition through the longtime (founded in 1943) fanzine, Fantasy Commentator, as a memorial issue for Moskowitz and Searles.

What is remarkable about the document is the picture it provides of the Olympian editor as he becomes Olympian; and it is far different from the image in the minds of today's readers and scholars, and even those of us who knew him. As a writer, he was feeling his way toward his art and later the theories that he would pass along to the authors who would work with him. As an editor, he had to learn the tricks of the business from Mort Weisinger, then editor of Thrilling Wonder Stories and later of Superman comics. As a young married man he was trying to earn a living in the depths of the Depression any way he could and sought employment as eagerly as he sought to sell his stories and articles.

Some of the myths the letters dispel are the concept of the editor coming into his office with ideas about the genre that he wanted to apply, the belief that Campbell's contract with Street & Smith kept him from publishing his own work, and his commitment to Dianetics. The new editor joined Street & Smith, at a salary of thirty dollars a week in October 1937, after F. Orlin Tremaine was promoted to assistant to the editor-in-chief. It took a year before Campbell could begin to make an impression with stories he had accepted; the letters record how he began to identify authors and solicit their input, along with his sometimes troubled relationships with them, including Edward Elmer “Doc” Smith, the grand old man of space epics. Smith and Campbell argued over the amount of payment for Smith's Lensman series and the impact Smith had on sales. The letters also record his discovery of Robert Heinlein, A. E. van Vogt, Theodore Sturgeon, and Isaac Asimov, the authors who would make the Golden Age their own with their first appearances in Astounding in a couple of months in the summer of 1939.

The letters also reveal Campbell's developing strategies for building fan interest in his magazine, including writing pseudonymous letters himself to “Brass Tacks,” which upon occasion was changed to “Science Discussions,” when the previous name of the letter column was considered insufficiently serious. Campbell also read the fanzines and not only contributed material and information, but persuaded his friends to influence them. The letters cover Campbell's involvement in the first World Science Fiction convention in Manhattan in 1939.

When I was trying to recruit Campbell to do a segment on the Golden Age for my Literature of Science Fiction film series, he declined on the excuse that he had been too busy editing to read any of his competitors (Harry Harrison later persuaded Campbell to allow us to film him and Gordon Dickson for what we titled “Lunch with John Campbell.") But that may have been a way to turn me down politely; the letters reveal that he followed his competitors closely for at least several years after his appointment, including stories that he had turned down that were published elsewhere. They also suggest that in his business practices with writers he may have identified more with his publisher, supporting Street & Smith's policy of buying “all rights.” Even if it was willing to relinquish rights upon request, it still kept some of de Camp's payment for Henry Holt's 1941 publication of Lest Darkness Fall because it had been arranged through Street & Smith.

Campbell's salary, however welcome in 1937 in providing what had been up to then a month-to-month uncertainty about food and housing during the Depression, was insufficient to meet Campbell's hopes to buy a house and a new car (a Ford), and he published his own stories in Astounding and elsewhere, even sending stories off to new magazines rumored to start in England. He soon got rewarded by Street & Smith with a raise to fifty dollars a week and gradually his own work trailed off into promotional efforts for science fiction itself. One striking example of how a published story conceals its troubled origins is the classic “Who Goes There?,” which began with a humorous story called “The Brain Stealers of Mars” that Campbell wrote for Weisinger's Thrilling Wonder Stories. Campbell thought he could adapt the idea of imitation of life forms for a story called “Frozen Hell,” about imitation in the Antarctic rather than on Mars, which he wanted to sell to Argosy. The editorial staff there was excited about it but thought it didn't have any “major characters.” Campbell rewrote the story, which eventually found its way to Tremaine and Astounding and got its final name.

The origins of the legendary fantasy magazine Unknown are recounted here, and like everything else its beginnings were far less confident than the impression offered by its realization. One interesting aspect was the way in which Campbell tried to get fantasy stories from his SF authors without telling anyone that a new magazine was in the works. Unknown was going to be named Strange Worlds until Standard Magazines announced that it was bringing out a new magazine called Strange Stories.

Lots of inside stories are recounted in these letters, with appraisals of stories and authors, including Edmond Hamilton, Henry Kuttner, Jack Williamson, L. Sprague de Camp, Theodore Sturgeon, and particularly L. Ron Hubbard and Robert Heinlein. Campbell admired Hubbard as a writer and as a person with a fascinating life story and talents other than writing. The letters also give some insight into the science-fiction social life that often centered around Campbell's home in New Jersey. When Hubbard produced his book on Dianetics in 1950, Campbell published a sizable portion of it in the May 1950 Astounding and his letters are filled with enthusiasm about its efficacy for several years, including a reference to his wife Dona's fear for him embedded in her “engrams” that led to their divorce. But by February 1953 Campbell had become disenchanted. He explained his earlier belief in Hubbard's methods because of the way Hubbard had restored himself from a psychological wreck in 1935 to a confident, sparkling person four years later.

The issue of Fantasy Commentator could more accurately be described as a large-size, 159-page soft-cover book. It contains a lot of typographical errors, and Moskowitz's comments and editing are of mixed value. Moskowitz's critical judgments were never his strong suit, and neither was his style, but he does provide context from his encyclopedic knowledge of the scene and the publications of the period. He is able to supply details of material that may be only ambiguous references in the letters. But he is not always trustworthy and provides no documentation. One example: A letter refers to Lloyd Eschbach's interest in “Frozen Hell,” and Moskowitz commented that Eschbach published this (for Fantasy Press) in 1951 as The Moon Is Hell. But “Frozen Hell,” as we have already noted, was the early name for “Who Goes There?” and The Moon Is Hell is a novel about a spaceship being wrecked on the moon and the crew having to find ways to survive (incidentally by heating water out of moon dust.)

But no matter. The work is a fascinating insight into how the Golden Age got going and the man who got it going.

Copyright (C) 2012 James Gunn

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Reader's Department: BRASS TACKS

Dear Dr. Schmidt,

Congratulations to Alistair Meyer for beating me to publication of a solid, testable hypothesis regarding the phenomenon of disappearing socks. [October 2011.] For years I have pondered this very mystery and was just about to publish myself.

Of course, in order to publish, I would have to launch my own venue, UCO Review, a peer-reviewed forum for serious papers discussing Unidentified Creeping Objects, a sister science to the study of UFOs and USOs.

In said publication, my opening salvo was to be: “ITBEs and Podiatric Protection Protocols: Recovering Fabric Footwear From Intra-Terrestrial Biological Entities, Commonly Known as ‘Sock Gnomes.’”

My hypothesis regards minute nocturnal creatures, sock bandits of the species Gnomus pinchsocketus, that emerge from mini-wormholes in the Earth's crustal plates, crawl into dryer exhaust tubes, then shimmy into dryer drums to make off with their prized loot.

Alas, Mr. Meyer's alternative hypothesis, tested in the time-honored tradition of “Oops, I made a mistake and discovered a fundamental truth,” puts my cherished contemplation on the lint heap.

Darn! Their socks have returned with more? Maybe mine? Gee. Perhaps when the Meyer Hypothesis receives the Nobel Sock Recovery Prize, due to be awarded in 2012 in Gnomeville, Wishconsin, he will be provided enough funds to send out all the lost socks that are returning to Earth via his reverse-drum-vortex. I really miss the one with the rainbows and sparkles that matched my hat and gloves. Well, the one glove . . . the other disappeared in the dryer—

Glove Gnomes! All hope is not lost! Look for the launch of UCO Review any day now.

Amy Dunn

Hilo, Hawaii

* * * *

Dr. Schmidt,

Hello. I'm a new subscriber to your magazine and I'm really very glad I decided to purchase the subscription. My interest in your magazine began with Brad Torgersen's “Outbound” story after I picked it up at a B&N. Then I decided to purchase a subscription when I heard that he had a new story this month [December 2011], even though I had read it before (I participated in the Dean & Kris workshop that Brad originally wrote it for back in February.) The November 2011 issue was my first delivery and Castro's story “With Unclean Hands” was my favorite, though truth be told, I enjoyed them all.

Thank you again for running such a wonderful magazine and I'm looking forward to my next issue. I think I'm going to be a long-term subscriber.

With warm regards,

Thomas K. Carpenter

* * * *

Dear Dr. Schmidt,

As a long-time subscriber, I feel I finally have to give my first opinion about your magazine in general and the Brass Tacks contributors in particular.

I look forward to each issue and enjoy almost every article/story. I will admit that some (most) of your science facts are way over my head, but I'm glad they are there nonetheless. After all, your magazine is named Analog SCIENCE FICTION AND FACT and it seems to be blazoned on every cover I have seen. You are doing a great job.

So the reason for this epistle is to ask the question: Do the contributors to Brass Tacks not know the difference between fact and fiction? You do label the fact articles as fact—so one must assume all the rest of the stories are fiction. Why must they (the contributors) feel they must correct the authors on some obscure point of physics that does nothing to change the world, other than to give the contributor a feeling of self-aggrandizement? ("Ah-ha! Caught you, you ignoramus! See how smart I am?") I wonder how their parents ever got away with the story about the three pigs and the big bad wolf.

I suggest those folks buy more trade magazines for chemistry, physics, astronomy, etc. and do some good for mankind in general.

I really don't care that we can't actually go faster than light. In my imagination we can, and it makes for a great story. That's what your selling, isn't it?

Best regards,

Jim

* * * *

Certainly there's a lot more leeway in fiction than in a fact article, and readers need to make some allowance. At the same time, there's also something extra special about a story that's not only fantastic but just might be possible. So a lot of readers and writers like to play “the game": writers try to get the details in their stories as right as they can (consistent with telling a good story), and readers like to try (sometimes less tactfully than they might) to find ways they could have got it even better.

* * * *

Dear Dr. Schmidt,

Just a note to thank you for yet another outstanding issue of Analog. [December 2011] Of the several stories I've read so far, two in particular stand out: Brad R. Torgerson's “Ray of Light"; and Kristine Kathryn Rusch's “The Impossibles.” Perhaps because I'm a divorced dad, (or not . . .) I could relate to the dad in the story and his struggles of the heart, especially with his wife and daughter. The idea of a freeze-over (regardless of its source) was a nice change from gloom-and-doom global warming. The teens weren't simply cardboard, much less sitcom characters that make adults look dumb. I cheered their initiative and got a kick out of the story's resolution (sorry, I'm a photographer . . .). Ms. Rusch's tale also struck a chord. Having been on a few court dates with my ex, seeing three different judges, (and their approaches to Family Court) and having a caring if somewhat busy-with-other-cases attorney, this one hit home. Donatella and her legal dilemma (falling through the cracks) were especially poignant and believable, as was her newbie attorney. That one's a keeper. I hope Ms. Rusch gives her another shot.

Thanks much for your time and attention.

Regards,

EW “Whit” Knight, H.D.D.

* * * *

Dear Mr. Schmidt,

As a long time subscriber and admirer I was quite disappointed by your “Outliers, Evil Spirits, and Perspective” editorial on nuclear power.

Juxtaposition of the number dead from the tsunami with estimated numbers from the massive release of nuclear contamination is a false argument. The impact of the nuclear accident needs to be assessed in it own terms. For generations after the tsunami's damage has passed, the radiation will bedevil the people of Japan and perhaps the world.

The tsunami was not caused by humans; it was not a human decision. Building nuclear plants is a decision made by society.

Also, you apparently did not update your facts. Since initial reports, new evidence shows that the nuclear failure began with the earthquake, before the tsunami hit. Last week, news reports suggest that fission is still taking place.

To suggest the severity of the contamination, but not to equate the value of things with lives, may I point out that nearly 1,000 square kilometers of Japan has been deemed uninhabitable?

Over a hundred nuclear plants in America are generating nuclear waste for which there is no permanent disposal technology. No economically feasible approach has been identified. America keeps the extremely radioactive waste in containers that require constant circulation of water to prevent overheating and near certain thermal explosion. The power to cool must be uninterrupted for the next 1,000 years or longer. Yes, perhaps a few hours or days of interrupted power are tolerable, but any longer outage risks near certain catastrophe.

Given the arc of human history this may be the ultimate hubris of our society. To imagine that we can guarantee future generations will keep these hundreds of tons of radioactive waste from overheating for centuries to come is absurd. Wars and natural disasters, indeed, the inevitable fall of empires, makes it extremely likely that someday the power will be cut off for far too long. When that happens, radioactive cesium and plutonium will spread across the land and water and seep into the water tables. There it will remain a steadfast and powerful force against human life for millenniums.

Perhaps this scenario is an entertaining topic for science fiction writers, imaging how humans migrate, evolve, or adapt. Yet the very real people who experience the pain and death of the radioactive poison will not be entertained. If they can remember who perpetrated this folly, they will surely curse them.

I call on you to reexamine your position and revisit this issue. A good place to start is with Arnie Gundersen at Fairewinds. I urge you to write a new editorial and set the record straight. You owe it to your readers and the human species.

Sincerely,

Mark Coats

Austin, TX

* * * *

First of all, my editorial was not about nuclear power, though people's attitudes toward nuclear power provided one of my main examples of my real subject. My real subject, as I explicitly stated, was the tendency of people to view certain topics, including but not limited to nuclear power, in much the same way as their ancestors viewed evil spirits: a way more superstitious and hysterical than analytical and rational. That point remains valid and important.

I also explicitly acknowledged that the Japanese nuclear problems were very large (though not, I think, as large as you claim; “bedevil the world” strikes me as extreme hyperbole and a good example of what I was talking about), and that I was not arguing for or against the continued use of nuclear power. I was merely pleading (probably in vain) for a more reason-based consideration of that and similar questions.

As for not updating my facts, you and anyone reading any Analog editorial needs to be aware that, because of the limitations of our production methods, they're written at least five months before they appear. So adjusting them to take into account something released “last week” is not even remotely in the realm of possibility. What I say always includes the implicit disclaimer, ‘As of this writing . . .'

Why does production take so long? Because faster methods are much more expensive, and since science fiction magazines tend to have low circulations, we would have to charge an unrealistically high price for the magazine to produce it with high-speed methods.

* * * *

Dear Dr. Schmidt,

You asked how the word “nuke” came to be used for the process of heating food in a microwave oven. [January/February 2012] It is very simple: the electric power in the house comes from a nuclear power plant. We are acknowledging the source of the power when we use the oven. The microwave generator in the oven is not nuclear, of course, but the North Anna power plant is.

Elin Larson

* * * *

A cute theory, but it's farfetched and holds no water at all. It could equally justify saying we nuke our laundry in electric washers and dryers, or nuke our copies of Analog with the electric lights we use to illuminate them. And how does it apply to the many, many microwave ovens using power not generated by nuclear power plants?

* * * *

Dear Dr. Schmidt,

Triggers [January/February 2012] started off with a bang. A great choice and a real page-turner. I really enjoy the serials. They make me look forward to the next issue. I can't wait to open the magazine when there is a serial. Keep them coming. Edward Lerner's serial started great but lost some steam. Still good, but the end did not match the level of excitement of the beginning. Thank you and the staff for all your years of service.

Warmest wishes,

Steve Sterling

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Reader's Department: UPCOMING EVENTS by Anthony Lewis

20-22 April 2012

ODYSSEY CON 12 (Madison WI area SF conference) at Radisson Hotel, Madison, WI. Writer Guests of Honor: Larry Niven and Steven Barnes; Game Designer Guest of Honor: Kenneth Hite. Memberships: (until 7 April 2012) Adult $35, Student $25, Youth (6-12) $15; (thereafter and at the door): Adult $45, Student $35, Youth (6-12) $25. Info: www.odysseycon.org; Odyssey Con, PO Box 7114, Madison, WI 53707

25-27 May 2012

ALABAMA PHOENIX FESTIVAL (The Arts, Science Fiction, Fantasy, Gaming, etc.) at Hilton at Perimeter Park, Birmingham, AL. Membership: $50 until 27 April 2012, $55 thereafter. Info: www.alabamaphoenixfestival.com /index.html; info@alabamaphoenixfestival. com; PO Box 359, Helena, AL 35080.

25-28 May 2012

BALTICON 46 (Baltimore area SF conference) at Marriott's Hunt Valley Inn, Baltimore, MD. Guest of Honor: Jody Lynn Nye; Artist Guest of Honor: Jim Odbert; Music/Filk Guests of Honor: Heather Dale & Ben Deschamps; Science Guest of Honor: Dr. William D. Phillips, N.L. Membership: $50 adult/$25 (6-12) until 29 February 2012, $55/$28 1 March to 30 April 2012; $62/$31 thereafter. Info: www. balticon.org/; balticoninfo@balticon.org; P.O. Box 686, Baltimore, MD 21203-0686

25-28 May 2012

BAY CON 30 (San Francisco Bay area SF conference) at the Hyatt Regency, Santa Clara, CA. Writer Guest of Honor: Brandon Sanderson; Artist Guest of Honor: Stephan Martiniere; Fan Guests of Honor: Scott & Cathy Beckstead; TMs: Dani & Eytan Kollin. Membership: $60 as of 11 November 2011, more later. Info: www.baycon.org/2012/; info12@baycon.org; P.O. Box 62108 Sunnyvale, CA 94088-2108

25-28 May 2012

WISCON 36 (Feminist-oriented SF conference) at Concourse Hotel, Madison, WI. Guests of Honor: Andrea Hairston & Debbie Notkin. Membership: Age 18+ $50; Age 7 to 17 $20. Membership is capped at 1,000; there is no guarantee of at-the-door memberships. Info: www.wiscon.info/; concom36@ wiscon.info; WisCon, c/o SF3, P.O. Box 1624, Madison, WI 53701-1624.

30 August-3 September 2012

CHICON 7 (70th World Science Fiction Convention) at Hyatt Regency Chicago, IL. Writer Guest of Honor: Mike Resnick; Artist Guest of Honor: Rowena Morrill; Astronaut Guest of Honor: Story Musgrave; Fan Guest of Honor: Peggy Rae Sapienza; Agent Guest of Honor: Jane Frank; TM: John Scalzi. Membership from 1 October 2010 until some later date (see website for latest details): Attending through Spring 2011: Adult (22+): $125; Young Adult (17-21): $100; Child (5-16): $75; Kid-in-tow (0-4): FREE; Supporting: $50. [Ages as of 30 August 2012]. This is the SF universe's annual get-together. Professionals and readers from all over the world will be in attendance. Talks, panels, films, fancy dress competition—the works. Nominate and vote for the Hugos. Info: chicon7.org/; info@chicon.org; Post Office Box 13, Skokie, IL 60076.

Copyright (C) 2012 Anthony Lewis

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Analog Science Fiction and Fact (Astounding), Vol. CXXXII, No. 4, April 2012. ISSN 1059-2113, USPS 488-910, GST#123054108. Published monthly except for combined January/February and July/August double issues by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications. One-year subscription $55.90 in the United States and possessions, in all other countries $65.90 (GST included in Canada), payable in advance in U.S. funds. First copy of new subscription will be mailed within eight weeks of receipt of order. When reporting change of address allow 6 to 8 weeks and give new address as well as the old address as it appears on the last label. Periodical postage paid at Norwalk, CT and additional mailing offices. Canadian postage paid at Montreal, Quebec, Canada Post International Publications Mail, Product Sales Agreement No. 40012460. (c) 2012 by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications, all rights reserved. Dell is a trademark registered in the U.S. Patent Office. Protection secured under the Universal Copyright Convention. Reproduction or use of editorial or pictorial content in any manner without express permission is prohibited. All stories in this magazine are fiction. No actual persons are designated by name or character. Any similarity is coincidental. All submissions must be accompanied by a stamped self-addressed envelope, the publisher assumes no responsibility for unsolicited manuscripts or artwork.

Visit www.analogsf.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.

Table of Contents

- Reader's Department: EDITORIAL: POLICY by Stanley …

- Novelette: THE MOST INVASIVE SPECIES by Susan Fore…

- Reader's Department: IN TIMES TO COME

- Science Fact: PLANETS (OOPS, PLANETOIDS) X, Y, Z, …

- Short Story: A DELICATE BALANCE by Kevin J. Anders…

- Novelette: ECCE SIGNUM by Craig DeLancey

- Department: THE ALTERNATE VIEW: THE CHINK IN EINST…

- Probability Zero: TO SERVE ALIENS (YES, IT'S A COO…

- Short Story: YOU SAY YOU WANT A REVOLUTION by Jerr…

- Short Story: FOLLOW-UP by Stephen L. Burns

- Serial: TRIGGERS: PART III OF IV by Robert J. Sawy…

- Reader's Department: THE REFERENCE LIBRARY by Don …

- Reader's Department: A REFERENCE LIBRARY SUPPLEMEN…

- Reader's Department: BRASS TACKS

- Reader's Department: UPCOMING EVENTS by Anthony Le…

- [Back to Table of Contents]